Call Of Duty Fanfics: Modern Warfare Arc
by CosmicAutistic
Summary: The Modern Warfare arc of the Call Of Duty series. Read & Review.
1. (4:MW) SAS: FNG

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic**

He kneeled there, shifting his weight from one leg to another, scanning the environment. Again, he looked through the blurry scope, silently cursing the surroundings. His legs reddened gradually, and his hands began to shake. No, he must not shake it. His legs, now controlled by an iron will, kneeled there like metal, like it was made of machines and stone. He had been there for an hour after breakfast, or so he thought. Dawn broke, and sunlight shone forth his face, like swords piercing his eyes. Surely a full stomach affects him? He then sat on the ground, his legs giving way. A slight rustle was made; it was noisy. Careful not to reveal this to his superiors, he told himself. He held the shiny chrome-lined L115 sniper rifle in his hands and removed the muzzle. On it was a reflection of himself. He sighed, replaced it, and then continued his sentry.

For three years he had served the army, and he was a great representative of his squadron. He, however, was chosen for sentry three days in a row. He knew everyone had a breaking point, but do the superiors know that? No, he replied to himself. He was a Sergeant, and he is as tall as a meter and a half. His height stands at 1.68m, but it is, to him, trivia. Although he thought it was trivia, we will get to know that it will be something that will save his life. **(AN [Author's Note: you will find this around the fanfic.]: See Chapter 2: Crew Expandable (UC))**

Soon, he made out a rumbling sound, soft and humming, along the road. His sharp ears quickly picked up the trail, and he thought: hundred metres. Soon, the car came into view, but only through the scope. Two men, one clean-shaved, one wearing soldiers' clothing. He is in an army car. Soon, the car came closer, the thundering rumbling coming into everyone's ears.

"Authorized car approaching Main Gate! Serial number 81492. Fifty meters. Response."

"Open the gate," came a bushy response.

The signal was given, and the big metal grates opened. A majestic entrance, it may seem, but no, it was not to be.

**F.N.G.****  
**24th July 2011**  
**08:45:22**  
**John 'Soap' MacTavish**  
**Credenhill, Britain, S.A.S. HQ****

In the car, John 'Soap' MacTavish sat on the rear seat. He was amazed at the big building that rested on the top of the hill, of what was name 'Credenhill'. The driver drove through the main gate, stopped at a 'warehouse'. Near the top of the blue wall that faced him was words emblazoned on the metal. It says 'Hangar 3'. The driver looked behind and said, "Soap, here you are. Credenhill, spot for all personnel under the name of S.A.S."

"So this building is it." Soap remarked, with a hint of sarcasm, "How nice." He exited the car, and picked up his duffel bag, and marched all the way to the front of the building. A mutter from behind went in his ears, "If I were you, I would have thanked the driver."

"Thanks," was the reply from Soap's mouth. The car rumbled away.

The wooden door of the Hangar at the left of the big 'wall' opened, and a sound from inside came, "Come in, we don't have all day." Soap obeyed, and came face-to-face with Gaz. He gave a smile, a smile so pathetic, compared to a pale sunshine it would have made the Sun paler with grief, or even make it vomit with jealousy. His superior voice said, "Welcome to our group. I'll be guiding you through the training course, etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera. Please be quick when I say things, I hate being slow."

"Well, I say your voice _was_bloody slow."

"Don't expect me to laugh. Or it's the guardhouse. Anyways, there's a rifle on the table. Go get it, and place your bag on the table with the rifle. We'll place it in your bunk. Report to me for bunk number and inspection after the 'mock-up' course."

Soap went to the plastic, flimsy table right in front of the armoury. A rifle lay there neatly. Soap picked it up, placed his bag on the table, and turned around. Again, another voice was intercepted by his ears, "Hey, if I were you, I would have thanked the person who supplied you the gun."

"Thanks."

"A nice, shiny Heckler and Koch G36C. Gas-operated, thirty-ammunition clip. 5.56x45mm NATO rounds. I fixed an ACOG for you. Don't scratch it; we have explicit rules of taking care your gun." Gaz's boastful voice came across, "Now go to station one."

Soap grimaced at the gun. It already has a scratch. A giggle came from behind. Soap sighed, remembering what Gaz told him, and travelled down the corridor to station one. "What do I do next?"

"Well, shoot the target down the range. Don't forget your earplugs. I want you to aim down your sights. Then await further commands." Gaz sighed.

Soap heaved the gun up, and fired a shot down the range. The rails created the first mark on his face, a scar: his very first. The bullet hit squarely on the target's middle; a bull's eye. "Lovely…" was Gaz's reply.

"Right, do you want to know why it is important to aim down your sights?" The reply came, "Not sure."

"See the target there? Hit it without aiming down your sights." Gaz answered. And so, Soap heaved the gun up again, and pulled the trigger. The first burst missed. He then done a second. It missed as well. Only at the fifth burst then the target hit. "I see now."

"Very good. Your next lesson is based on reaction speed. You see, when you hit targets, they fire back. Let's see how fast you can take targets down." Gaz pressed a button, and a target came up. The mechanism was implemented quickly on Soap; he aimed down the sights, dropped one, dropped a few more, and emptied the clip totally. The last target hit when Soap used the first round of his second magazine. Smoke, and gas filled the room.

"Nine seconds. Fast enough, but sub-standard. Assault training is done. Now you will learn pistol handling. Get that pistol on the table."

Soap, again, returned to the same plastic table. A shiny nickel USP lay on the table. "USP? .45 ACP calibre huh? For what do I use a pistol?"

Gaz then beckoned Soap to go closer to him. "Yes. Reloading is a good technique, reloading quick is good, but have you considered CQB conditions? Then switch to your pistol – movements are quick, so be careful."

Soap tested switching to pistol. He fumbled the pistol in his hands, but it fell down. Bang! Its bullets pierced neatly onto a wall beside Gaz. "Sorry."

"Try again," Gaz convinced him, "I shot my friend once when doing it as well. He wasn't hurt badly though."

Soap tried it again, and he manages to pull it out completely. "Good. Now, knifing."

"Isn't knifing just pulling out your knife and killing someone?" Soap questioned.

"Yes. Using your knife is faster than switching to your pistol. Knife the watermelon in front of me."

Soap quickly pulled out the sleek blade positioned on his pocket, and sliced the fruit clean into half, and an explosion of red mist came out of the fruit.

"That will be the fireworks you'll see in war." Gaz proclaimed. "Here, go to my friend Sergeant Newcastle."

Soap placed the rifle on the table, beside the cut watermelon, and proceeded to walk out of the door, a cool breeze caressing his face. He faced a face different. He is clean-shaven, no sign of a beard. He sported a cap, and he was clean faced, as if someone had disinfected him and should be handled with care with gloves from the laboratory. His hand held a grenade, round and green, and pretended to pull out the pin. Soap backed out, with Newcastle laughing and saying, "Hey Soap, it's all right. Hehe, welcome to explosives training."

"Don't blow it up in my face."

"Right, pick up the grenades on the table, then throw it in the windows 2, 3, and 4."

Soap went to pull out the pin on the grenade, counting, "One-Two-Three," and went to throw, with all his strength, the grenade into the window 2. A resounding monotonous beep was produced after the explosion. Gas and dust was detected by his nose, and he sneezed. After that, he pulled another pin and repeated the procedure on windows 3 and 4. He was left 1 more grenade. "Dangerous work...," Soap said. "Next?"

Newcastle strolled into the truck behind him, and he then produced an L85A2, with a grenade launcher. "There, an L85. Give me your last grenade, then I'll give you my weapon. Then fire the launcher on the wall with the number 1."

Soap dropped his last grenade on the table, and went to pull the pin. Newcastle took it and put it in his pocket. It went off with a 'fizz'. "That grenade was sabotaged, I wanted to see your reaction. It seems like you were smart enough to distinguish a fake and a real." He emitted a queer laugh, something like a giggle, and then he continued, "Go and continue." Soap, obeyed, and set the launcher from safety to fire, and aimed the launcher at the number 1 on the wall. He pulled the trigger, expecting the round to explode, and covered his face with the body of the gun, but it did not. It flattened itself onto the wall, and stayed there. He fumbled the gun, and removed from the magazine the shell of the grenade round. Soap proceeded to drop the shell on the stone around him, and fitted another round in the chamber. He fumbled the launcher again, trying not to drop it and get a comfortable grip on it. Once he maintained his grip, Newcastle replied, "Yes. As you can see, the launcher has a safety arming distance, it never explodes on short range, to prevent the round from exploding when the round drops on the floor. Now pop a grenade in windows 4, 5, and 6."

Soap started wondering how long this 'training' is going to take. He shot the rounds at the windows, careful not to miss even a single round. After all was done, he was more tired than usual. The gun, he thought, was not as light as he thought when he was young. Tiredly, he replaced the gun onto the same spot where the gun laid at first. Newcastle then handed him a C4. The yellow packet and the switch laid beside the L85A2. "Pick up the C4."

Again, with the same lethargic feeling, he picked up the explosive, and then Newcastle spoke, "Seems that my ex-wife donated her car to furthering your education, Soap. Throw the C4 on the car."

Soap strode to the blue, plain car. It looked nothing unusual, with the bonnet closed and the license plate on top of it. And so Soap asked, "Sure is alright to blow up your ex-wife's car?"

No sound. Soap took it as a yes.

He primed the C4, and threw it on the car. "Place the C4 on the bonnet of the car."

He, again, primed the C4, placed it on the bonnet. He backed out, and then a shout came from behind, "FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Soap gingerly pressed on the trigger. Boom! The explosion reminded him of a nursery rhyme 'Pop goes the weasel'. Surely, a scream came from the countryside. Was it a figment of his imagination?

"Good...you passed the demolitions test, head to my friend there Mac. He will be glad to see you."

Soap put down the C4 detonator, and sauntered to the training course next to the windows and blackened walls.

"Oi, looks like Miss Soap was KIND enough to join us!" Mac's loud and obnoxious voice rang over the loudspeakers and in Soap's ears. He wished to cover it, but being fearful of the length of the scolding, not the intensity of it, he decided not to. "Get yourself on the line."

Soap quietly eased himself between two others who were other Privates, and waited for the signal. "All right, move! This isn't a bloody walk in the park, move your asses!"

Angry at the remark Mac made, and wanting to prove Mac wrong and make him stupefied, he crossed part one with all his might. "Oh no - not the crawling test!" One Private cursed silently. While crawling under the barbed wire, Mac commented, "You crawl like old people screw; I've seen Sandhurst Commandos move faster than you lot! Oi, Corporal! Fire the machine guns!"

Bullets whizzed overhead Soap, and he was afraid that he may get hit on the head. He sped up his speed, and propelled himself forward. Once he was out of the barbed wire, he made a turn around the next corner, expecting a finish line like his triathlete years. No, it was a few wood poles, made out of timber! It reached about Soap's height. What should he do? Soap had a small brainwave, and ran across the field of pillars as fast as he can. "Good work, Soap. Get to Hangar One. Captain is expecting you. As for you bloody ponces," Mac turned to the other Privates, "you're gonna do the course until I'm no longer embarrassed of you! Be like Soap; his timing's incredible!"

Soap went to the Hangar that stood before him, the Privates' pants and huffs behind him. Slowly the door opened. Inside stood three people: two wearing a suit with a gas mask, and one commented, "It's the FNG sir." The last person, by the name of Price, surveyed Soap. "Go easy on him sir, he is the first of the selected."

"Right, what the hell kinda name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you passed selection? Well, never mind that. For this test, you will run the course in less than sixty seconds. Gaz holds the squadron record of nineteen seconds, beaten by a person callsigned '88' by point two seconds, so the record is eighteen point eight seconds. Good luck."

Soap clinched his teeth, angry at the face some people like to answer their own questions, and he has a captain who does the same thing! He saw a ladder, and he knew what to do. He climbed the ladder. At the top he saw a few things: an MP5, four flashbangs and a pistol. Price said, "Pick up the MP5."

Soap did so, and picked up the flashes as well. Price said, "Okay, rope down and finish the course."

Soap grabbed the tight rope with both hands, and rappeled down to the makeshift 'ship'. He saw targets, similar to the ones at the firing range, where he was with Gaz. Once again the mechanism clicked inside him, and he went to pull the trigger at the targets. Bing! The targets were shot and a resounding bell rang. He continued the way down, and saw a door and a target. Shooting the target, Soap passed it, and saw a few words marked in blue ink: THROW FLASH HERE! Soap pulled the pin of the M84 flashbang, and threw it into the room. A loud bang continued time, and Soap, although blinded, has eyes of a jaguar. He shot the targets with _precise_ accuracy. Once he ran the course, Price said, "18.9 seconds. Congratulations! You are 2nd in rank. That's enough, you'll do."

Soap proceeded to go in front of Captain Price, and he said, "Gentlemen, we have a mission at night. The cargo ship mission is ready to go. Wheels up at 0200. Dismissed."

Soap sauntered out of the Hangar, and went to his bunk for a silent nap on his own, and there is where the legend, Soap MacTavish starts his journey to victory, and bunk inspection too!


	2. (4:MW) SAS: Crew Expandable

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic****  
**MODERN WARFARE ARC**  
**Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare****

**A.N.: Sorry for delay. Bogged down with schoolwork. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy! :)**

The waters of the sea raged like a shark, impatient to eat its prey. The dark, stormy, weather seemed to intensify the thunder and lightning streaking across the navy blue sky, dark and unpredictable, but at the same time drowning out other sounds. A few above sea level, a helicopter chuffed its way across the angry and tearing sky, braving the strong winds able to life trees off the ground. A few times the engine lost control, a few times it was the other way round. So heavy was the storm when the helicopters' passengers saw a ship, on the Bering Strait, tilting at the stern, and looked like it was about to capsize. The orders were given, and the helicopter neared the ship, inching closer to the deck, without the fear of getting spotted as the cover of the storm suppresses the noise they make and the rain cut the deck sailors' visibility.

"30 seconds. Ready to drop force at Fox Green."

**"Crew Expandable"****  
**25th July 2011**  
**02:36:11**  
**'Soap' MacTavish**  
**Somewhere near the Bering Strait **  
**[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: RECOVER PACKAGE IN A CARGO SHIP****]****

"Okay, standby..." Price's voice seemed louder to Soap than the roaring thunder soaring above the din. The fierce cracks of thunder across the sky lighted up the world for a bit, then darkened again. The light emitted an ominous feeling in the helicopters. Inside Soap's helicopter, a tense atmosphere filled the room. 3 corporals enjoyed a conversation and a quiet smoke, along with a hooded person, and Soap quietly staring at Price. He took a long drag from his stick of burning cigarette, the dying flame at the edge trying to survive. The helicopter faltered a little, but then regained control. More thunder shook the surroundings, forcing the sea to make a bigger wave. Reminded Soap of Operation Neptune, 6th June, during class a few years back.

"10 seconds. Radio check, ready secure channel."

Price threw his smoke out of the door, into the ocean. He looked out and saw a big ship, tilting on its stern, and kicked the rope down when the helicopter was directly above the deck. He put on his gas mask, and Soap followed suit, and the corporals stopped the chatter and readied their masks. "Lock and load." Soap fixed a suppressor onto his MP5, cocking the lever on the left side on the gun, then pulled out the magazine to make a final check if it is loaded. Yes, it is. Replacing the lever, the pilot signalled, "Green light. Go, go, go!"

At the last word, Price grasped his two gloved hands on the rough rope, lifted his legs off the floor of the helicopter, and pushed his weight onto the rope, the effect allowing him to slide down the rope. He landed on the deck safely, and Soap, since he is an adult, and did not want to show he was afraid of heights, grabbed the rope with both hands, and slid down as well. Once he reached the deck, he saw a few inside a room in front of him.

"Weapons free."

At the command, Soap played 'trigger-happy', bursting at every single personnel inside the room. He fired a few suppressed shots, each bullet fixed into his desired target's body. A flow of blood squirted from the wound, and the enemy writhed in pain, clutching the wound of his. A second shot fixed that, and his target went sprawling onto the floor, doubled-up and dead. He did this to the others as well. Blood splattered all over the room, with each bullet piercing through the glass, breaking it. However, no reinforcements came, as the suppressed weapons and the noisy storm made the other patrols swallow the bait that nobody was on the deck.

The others landed on the ship, and the gigantic, hovering machine overhead them drifted away. One was holding a sniper rifle, the same L115 with chrome-lined rifle clutched neatly on his hands, just with a suppressor. Already, some blokes felt sea-sick, having never fought on stormy waters, and belched first. One couldn't take it any longer, and asked Price to hurry up. He face the iron door leading to the inside of the room, and using one right leg kick, the boots met the steel iron, and broke away from the captive of the hinges, and fell to the floor in front of Price. "Gaz, stay in the deck with the sniper, give him some help and give us covering fire. The rest of you - on me."

The poor corporal who felt as sick as anyone not familiar with water, ran to a corner, where a body laid, and vomited on him. The poor sleeper had his face full of smelly sandwiches and coffee, as that was what the corporal ate for his supper before the take-off. The face-full-of-vomit person woke up almost immediately, shouted a bad word, and fought the corporal, only to be rewarded with a double tap in the stomach and chest from the soldier's pistol, and promptly died. The soldier replaced his suppressed and shiny USP, and followed Price down the stairs, who did not take a single notice of the stinky business earlier on. "Stairs clear!"

Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, Price beckoned the hooded person to search the corridor. He agreed and looked out of the door. He cocked his gun, an M4A1 with a lot of camouflage and attachments. Out on the corridor, he saw a man, who was drunk, lumber out across the corridor. A single shot pierced through his head, a wholly red mist pouring out of the wound. He fell to the floor, dropping the bottle, and was dead before he hit the floor.

"Hallway clear!"

The team of soldiers from S.A.S. proceeded to stride out of the corridor, revealing a mass of black sky. A distant thunder shook the soldier's morale, but did not stop them. They took the left corner, and saw the deck before them. Covered by a mass of some fog and smoke from the ship's exhaust, A few flashlights were shining to and fro, not taking notice of the approaching targets. Cargo in shapes and sizes were scattered throughout the deck, and some were damaged. Gaz asked, "Ready yet?"

"Ready. Fan out - three meter spread." Price rehearsed his lines well - he said it without hesitation, and took the middle route, in between two pieces of broken cargo. Soap took the left route, and walked through broken pieces of cargo. The other people took the last route, and readied their weapons. The soldiers checked every corner for any sign of targets sleeping, waiting or anything they can do. Not far from their line of sight are the pair of ignorant flashlights, searching the deck, but due to poor visibility, the lights cannot find the few intruders.

"Open fire."

As per usual, every trigger was pulled, and the fire did not last long. One of the patrol fell to the ground, the flashlight breaking on the impact with the ground. The other was tapped on the chest and did a backward flip, falling over the railing and a muffled thud sounded. The few soldiers advanced forward, jumping across broken pieces of cargo from the holders on the deck. A piece of falling metal came upon Soap, who dodged it, and made a resounding bang on the floor.

"Who's that?" Everyone immediately knew someone or some_thing_ was coming. They found a hiding spot and stayed there. Soap could not find a spot to hide, so he risked it - he hit the deck, and did not move.

A flashlight shined on the cargo, approaching Soap. He was going to be spotted by a moving patrol! The dreaded binding white light closed in on Soap. Then out of the blue, the flashlight's attention caught the broken piece of metal which fell on the floor a little earlier on. A gruff voice rang out, "Just a piece of bloody metal - nothing to do with intruders. Go back!"

Soap got up, and saw a patrol going back to their positions. Soap was lucky that time. Price then contacted the sniper and Gaz. "Take down the patrol."

"With pleasure." A bullet pierced neatly onto the head of the patrol. He fell to the floor, a pool of blood magically appearing on the floor. The other target turned around, wanting to know who killed his friend, but another well-placed shot told him where his companion went.

"Pretty good. Get going."

The team silently moved forward, trying their best to keep away from falling cargo. They held with bated breaths, the tense surroundings around them staying there. Soap lifted his gun and switched on his flashlight, to confuse patrols that nothing happened. The trained guns were on the cargo, or on the deck. They knew someone was always behind _that_ big piece of cargo. They were tensed, and were also fearing somebody appeared out of the blue and they will be compromised. They were in open ground, and their positions was not good. If one patrol came from in front, they would be hard to spot, because their body was more behind cargo, and a sniper shot will give them away. A patrol behind was hard as well: they would be spotted when they came close to the light above them, and that would be the end of the expedition team. If _two_patrols came AT THE SAME TIME, at the front and the back, the result would be street fighting, with the team standing at the edge of the mountain and the enemies forcing them to go over, so therefore camouflage would be a good choice. One minute passed.

Then two. Three.

Finally, a flashlight came about, behind that big, blue, trunk of cargo. It was another person, and said, "Oi, patrol, where have you gone? If you don't come out, you won't have any more tea!"

They're going to have their tea all right. A bullet pierced the head of the person. He clutched his neck, dying to the floor, and his soul was gone. He laid there, dead, grotesque, and twisted. Soap took a risk, and raised his head. Nobody else spoke. Soap approached the cargo, knife in hand, a pistol in the other. Quietly, he looked in. Nobody was there. Soap signalled 'clear'. The others, hidden in the shadows of the pieces of metal, moved out and entered the cargo themselves. They saw a few cups of tea, some to the brim, others empty. Price took one cup, and emptied it with one breath. The others followed suit, and before long their energy was recovered and the cups were empty.

They soon continued with their journey of eternity. Soon, a platform came to view. Inside the room was a few blokes, who held machine guns and rifles. They spotted the team, and soon, behind cover, bullets were ricocheting off the sheets of metal. The sniper was also trying to hit targets. Then, a bullet whizzed past his head, about a centimetre above him, hitting his beret. It fell neatly to the floor. "Luck for me I did not eat those height-increasing supplements!" As per usual, the machine gunners fired too high, and they shot like a bunch of drunks.

Soon, airstrike entered the airspace, and before long the Russians were suffering bullets as well. After a minute or so, the room was emptied of Russians, and blood splattered all over the place. "Room clear."

"Bravo Six, Hammer is at bingo fuel, we're bugging out. Big Bird will be stationed for evac." the din of the overhead helicopter started to break away and soften. "Copy Hammer. Bravo Six - regroup."

A door was spotted, and it was concluded it led to the cargo at the bottom of the ship, the riskiest place to be in a ship when it is sinking. Price radioed the two overwatchers at the deck to come over. When they arrived, Gaz pulled out his W1200 slung on his back, with a suppressor on the muzzle. The metal shined bright in the moonlight, polished well. "I like to keep this for close encounters."

Price commented quickly, "Too right mate." The Old Man smashed the door open with his boot, "On your mark - go."

The team entered the room quickly, their boots making eerie noises of scraping on the floor. Price told everyone to check all corners. The room was small, it had three routes to go to - one at the entrance, to the left, the second containing a rusted staircase, and the last as a dead end. Some supplies was stacked there. Mostly food, and a lot of water, with oil piling on top. "Wouldn't this be risky if the ship topples over?" Soap asked Price while checking that particular corner. "Yes. But let's do not care of them. Once we secure the ship - then we inspect it."

The second route was secured by two of the team. "Room clear!"

"Move up."

"Stairs clear!" The team proceeded to go down the staircase, and pipes followed. One sensed something moving under the stairs. "Movement right." he signalled to the others the pipe beside him has enemies behind that pipe. The few primed their flashes, and threw one into the location the member indicated. True enough, there was a few idiots blinded by the flash, staggering round and round in circles, trying to get hold of their bearings. The team quickly made a turn at a staircase in front of the team, and came face to face with them. They opened fire, the bullets leaving the barrel, traveling its set route to the receiver, and his fate was sealed. He fell to the ground, the blood spilling everywhere, and twisted he lay on the floor. Another died with his hand decapitated. Price commented that he needed a burial service for all of them, and in case the ship sunk, the bodies will be very hard to find, including the person who lost his whole hand.

They cautiously advanced to another door. "This might lead to the cargo." Under a solitary red light the few broke open the door so hard it flew off. Soon gunfire started and bullets flew off the hinges which held the door. Price threw a flashbang and blinded the patrol downstairs. They got out of cover and opened fire, and before long the whole group of five died. The team moved quickly, like ghosts finding their next unfortunate victim.

Soap quickly moved on, and headed for a few cargo. Behind one, he did not know, was a Russian Spetsnaz. He popped out, and shot his Desert Eagle. It nearly hit Soap, and in turn Soap knifed the Spetsnaz, killing him. An iron door lay in front, and it was not open. The team quickly assembled there, and Price told the team to get ready. "Ready?"

"Squad One ready."

Soap slid closer to the door, ready to kill anyone appearing suddenly out of the door. "Squad Two ready."

"Blow it."

Soap thrust his foot to the door, and it fell open. A lot of bullets came whizzing out of the room, missing Soap, then hitting him once on the shoulder. The blood ran down his body, but the adrenaline running up and down his veins and arteries kept him from noticing the wound and the bullet sticking out. He barrel rolled out of the entrance, missing one bullet, and out of the enemies' line of sight (which is the door). Price hurriedly primed another banger and lobbed it down the room. A white light appeared suddenly, and the team went in to exterminate all inside the room. It turns out it wasn't a patrol, but a few patrols regrouping. "Tch."

Bullets whizzed back and forth. One ally was shot in the head and he twisted up. He fell to the floor and vomited blood, acid and other vomit, with an unexplainable pale expression on his face. Soap attempted to pull him into cover, out of the bullet's firing, but one more blind bullet hit him in the groin, and he promptly died. Soap was definitely angry, at what the fight had done to his friend. Immediately, he rushed in the room, clutching a sledgehammer he found at the corner near his dead friend, and smashed a Spetsnaz's skull, simultaneously pulling the trigger at another. Both died, and Soap raced to another victim, instantly breaking his whole chest. He spewed blood on Soap's gear, and he received another gigantic blow on his stomach. The strength of the blow was so strong, the body flew to another firing enemy. Soap finally brought down one last blow of extreme pain onto the dead body, and he heard the sound of cracking metal. A piercing scream filled the room. Soap dropped the broken sledgehammer, the berserk feel dissipating, and killed all the other blokes. Soon the room was filled with dead Spetsnaz, screams and cries and people begging for mercy and their mommies.

Gaz surveyed the room, and pulled out his radar. He found a strong ping nearby, and quickly went to one box of unopened cargo.

"I'm getting a strong reading sir." Gaz reported, while unlocking the cargo door. "You might wanna take a look at this!"

The door was opened, and in it lay some paper, and a Spetsnaz emblem was on the walls of the cargo. Price then commented, "Hmm, it's in Arabic..."

He then radioed the helicopter, "This is Bravo Six. Package found, going to the deck."

A dreaded reply came back, "No time Bravo Six. Two bogies headed your way fast, you better get out of there before they bomb the ship."

Price quickly picked up the manifest in the container, and replied, "Fast movers. Probably MiGs. Quickly, to the deck, doubly quick." The team moved out of the room, and attempted to move out of the room quickly, but got blasted by the overhead MiGs. It's true!

The blast shook the ship, and it listed heavily to one side. The team stumble to the floor, and Soap nearly lost consciousness. "Bravo Six, are you there? Come in, Bravo Six!" The team got to their feet quickly, their instincts around them. "The ship is sinking! We've got to go now!"

"Big Bird this is Bravo Six, we're on our way out. On your feet soldier," Price lifted Soap up, screaming to his face, "we are LEAVING!"

"Get to the catwalks, move, move, move!" The team rushed up the catwalks quickly, trying not to fall. "Move your asses! C'mon let's go!"

The team moved across the catwalks, debris falling everywhere. Soap was trying to be fast enough. Before they reached the last section, the catwalk started to break away. "It's breaking away! Come on, come on!" Soap did a final break for the door to the rusty stairway. He made it, and the catwalk fell behind him. Pipes broke everywhere, falling and giving way. "Watch the pipes!"

"Talk to me Bravo Six, where are you?" Big Bird radioed Price, and he replied, "Standby, we're almost there!"

A corporal shouted, in desperation, "Which way?! Which way to the helicopter?!" "Right! Right!"

In the midst of the chaos, Soap spotted one more drunk. He blasted him with a burst of his MP5SD, and hastened towards the exit. Debris fell everywhere, with the earlier pile of supplies in one corner dropping out of their place, and the tank of oil exploded. "Where the hell is it?"

The helicopter was stationed on the deck, trying to gain control while it was tilted heavily. The team went on it, but Soap was too late. He missed the ramp as he headed for it. The helicopter was ascending quickly, and a member echoed: "Jump for it!"

Soap dashed towards the end of the ship, and jumped hard with all his might. He never done a leap in his whole life, but the jump felt like a leap towards the sky, in an attempt to pull down a star from millions of miles away. Soap made a grab for the ramp. He made it, but slipped away as the ramp was wet. Price quickly got up from his seat, and grabbed Soap's hand. "Gotcha!" Price then hoisted him up to the ramp, and Soap got in his seat, looking at the ship, which was listing heavily to one side, and sank into the water, never to be seen again.

"This is Big Bird. Package secured, returning to base, out."

The team settled on the helicopter silently, the helicopter closing the ramp. "Hey, who wants breakfast?" Price broke the ice and asked the others the question the team wanted to hear. "First to the mess hall gets the biggest share!"

"Enough with the sandwiches, sir. It makes me sick."


	3. (4:MW) SAS: Blackout

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic  
MODERN WARFARE ARC  
Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare**

**A.N: "The Coup" will be published before the 1st level of the American Campaign. Watch out for it.  
UPDATE: Modern Warfare Arc will not be the CoD series that will feature our friends. Soon, the Black Ops Arc will be published! After that will be the Futuristic Arc. Be sure to look out for it!**

* * *

TRANSMISSION  
Gaz: _Captain Price, Al-Asad has just executed Al-Fulani on national television._  
Price: _The Americans have plans for Al-Asad, and it's too late to do anything for Al-Fulani.  
_Price:_ But in less than three hours, codename 'Nikolai' will be executed as well._  
The screen zooms in to Russia.  
Gaz: _Nikolai sir?  
_Captain Price: _Nikolai is our informant in the Ultranationalist camp. He supplied the intel on the Crew Expendable cargo ship operation._  
The satellite uploads Nikolai's profile and tracks him in an Ultranationalist camp in the Caucasus Mountains. _  
_Captain Price: _Nikolai's in hell right now. We're gonna walk him out... ...We take care of our friends. Let's move._  
The satellite tracks Sgt. "Soap" MacTavish in the Caucasus Mountains._  
_TRANSMISSION END

* * *

"Hey, Soap get ready. The Loyalists are meeting us half a click (A.N.: one click is one kilometre) to the north. Move out."

Soap primed his M4 SOPMOD (**S**pecial **O**perations **P**eculiar **Mod**ification) and replaced his knife, wet with mud and water which fell into the river not long ago, into his holster. Gaz, Price and one more soldier in a ghillie suit stood up, and Soap got up as well. The team of three was ready and they moved across the swamp. They were to rendezvous with the Loyalists. "Loyalists eh? Are they the good Russians or the bad ones?" Gaz banished the silence and started the usual chatter.

"Well, they won't shoot us on sight, if that's what you're asking."

Gaz ended the short talk by a response, "Yeah, that's good enough for me sir."

"Be careful: this area's well-guarded, we don't want to attract attention." Price waded in the knee-deep water and switched to his camouflaged M21, equipped with a suppressor. Moving forward, he chanced upon his first target. He was taking a quiet smoke and looked at the water, throwing his cigarette into the river. Damn the pollutants, Price huffed under his bated breath. He picked up his sniper rifle and carefully removed the targets head, and he fell to the floor violently.

**"Blackout"  
26th July 2011  
03:01:08  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Caucasus Mountains, Russia  
[MAIN OBJECTIVE: RESCUE NIKOLAI]**

The thud was heard by the opponent. By the riverside was a wooden house, a guard post. Two people were inside, sitting down and enjoying a beer. However, one more was currently fishing by the river, and he heard the shot. Soap double tapped him, and immediately he fell into the river, making a loud splash. There goes our cover.

Unexpectedly, the two blokes inside the house, they did not get out of their seats. They just said, "There's our dinner." Soap and Price looked down. No wonder they felt tickled. There was fish inside the pond. Oh well, Soap went to shoot the two idiots, dropping them both with a single shot. "Cor, I feel sorry for those blokes," the ghillie man replied.

"Cut the humour and good work. There should be a few more guard posts up ahead, we should go and remove them. Kamarov and his men will be waiting for us in a field to the northwest."

The four got out of the knee-deep water, murky with blood, and crossed the grass to another hut down the route. There were three, one which was a brick house, further down a stone path linking the other two houses, which were made out of the same kind of wood they chanced upon earlier: dilapidated and on the verge of collapsing. Soap went to the earlier wooden house, and surveyed the room. There were just two chairs, some beer, and a television tuned to a channel, showing Al-Asad and his bloody face. "The idiot." Soap smashed the screen with his fist. Turns out the television was inferior. It broke in just one punch. Soap drank one can of beer, and jumped out of the window. Gaz and Price were close to the second hut, the entrance facing the riverside. However, it was a miracle the occupants did not spot Soap approaching the team.

Price beckoned for Soap to come close. "You were lucky. Go plant a gas bomb near the door, then attract their attention. Quietly."

Soap pulled out a canister of the bomb, primed it, and then placed it in front of the entrance. The idiots were busy playing chess, too concentrated to notice the intruder. Shows how bad the security was, thought Soap. He then threw his knife on the table, attracting their attention. Soap then darted quickly back to Price's hiding spot. A soft bang, then chokes, then thuds. The same old song of dying fools deciding to join the army.

"Gas masks."

Everyone put on their gas masks, except the ghillie suit guy. "Why not wear the mask?"

"I'm resistant to it," the man in green got out of his place, then went to find the last hut, down the stone path. Another wooden one, and it seems with one occupant. He lifted his Cheytac M200 Intervention Prototype I and halved the idiot's skull. He came crashing to the floor, like a meteor crashing on the Earth, just that there was blood all over his face. One beautiful and flawless sniper kill had been executed onto the unwilling partner. However, a contorted expression came over the ghillie suit guy. He cursed, "Damn, I wanted it in the eye, not beside the eye."

"Guess nothing can please him, huh? Eh, old chum?" Price commented quietly.

"Who's he?"

"He's our friend, Sergeant Nick, codename '88'. Specializes on creating and recreating weapons. He was just testing his new Cheytac, see if it is good enough for a long range kill. He's also a marksman. By the way, he was the one who beat you in the cargo ship mockup thing."

The team hustled to the last big house. It had doors, yes. Nick radioed Price, "I'm doing a full scan of the house, turns out it's unoccupied. Safe." Price got the radio, and beckoned all to get near the door, and Gaz quietly opened the door. A light shone on the ceiling. It had an eerie feeling to the room, the kitchen. True enough, there was nobody. The team quickly went to another door, most probably the front door, at the living room, and went out of the house quietly.

Gaz sensed something, and twitched a little. Price asked, "Gaz, you smell that?"

Gaz found a reply that was the answer to the tickling feeling all over his body. "Yeah, Kamarov."

A rustle followed, and one soldier got out of the grass, his hand holding an AK-47 w/ PK-AV. A few more got up from the grass, some wearing ghillie suits, close to the one Nick was wearing. A person emerged from a bush nearby, and held up his AK-12 in the air. "Welcome to the new Russia, Captain Price." He beckons his friends to get out of cover, the grass. "What's the target, Kamarov? We've got an informant to recover." Price called annoyingly, a tinge of anger in his voice. "The Ultranationalists have BM21's on the other side of the hill. Their rockets have killed hundreds of civilians in the valley below. If you want us to be the next ones, that is," Kamarov replied, snickering a little.

"Oh, so we take out the BM21s huh." Nick commented.

Price quickly grabbed Kamarov's collar, and said, "No, not so fast. Remember Beirut? You're with us."

"Hm, I guess I owe you one."

The new team proceeded to go up the hill near them. A house sat on top of the hill, desolate and with its paint peeling off. Softly, Kamarov signalled one of his men to take position. He took cover beside the door, and got ready to breach it. His AN-94 equipped with a GP-25 and PK-AV shined in the solitary light overhead him. Seems like he took care of his gun really well.

"Soap, Nick, get your rifles ready. We snipe." Price beckoned the duo to get over to a road beside the house. There is a wooden fence which prevented people on the road from falling down. Price used a fusion cutter to cut through the fence. He removed two logs of wood stuck to the fence, and grunting, he placed them onto a rock wall behind them. It made a very good sniping position. Soap obediently strode to Price's location, however, Nick did not want to snipe. "Why not the front lines?"

"A ghillie being on the front lines? Get real." Gaz replies.

Nick sighed, and switched to his M200. He fixed his underbarrel bipod onto the open fence. He changed his scope zoom to 50x, activated triple-band mode (thermal + night vision + tracker) cleaned the lens, and looked through it. Soap took an M21 lying on the ground and pulled out its magazine, keeping it for his own use. Then, he pulled out his M21 w/ Suppressor and got ready, pulling the magazine out and checking the amount of ammunition in it. He changed the zoom of his rifle to the maximum possible: 10x. Nick noticed him, and took out something in his pocket. It looked like something like lens with some wiring. He switched it on, and fixed it onto Soap's lens. "It'll give you an advantage." Soap then found out he was using a prototype tracker sight.

"All units, commence the attack." Kamarov gave the order. One RPG (**R**ocket-**P**ropelled **G**renade) fired at the nearest BM-21. It exploded instantly, and the Ultranationalists found out the Loyalists had started the fight. Taken aback, the Ultranationalists scrambled to get ready. The Loyalists stormed the village, with Soap and Nick's support from above. The suppressors on the sniper rifles gave the snipers an edge against the Ultranationalists as they do not know there were snipers, and with the night covering the gun's muzzle flash, the snipers were completely invisible. Sure enough, the lens really gave Soap an advantage: he did not miss a single shot. He found a highlighted target, lined up a shot, then killed him instantly. "I could get used to this!"

Out of the blue, two blokes appeared inside a house below. They held RPDs and started firing at the Loyalists. Soap saw them and with the aid of the lens, he killed the two of them by headshots. "Nice shots, MacMillan would be impressed." The two of them dropped properly below. Soon enough, however, some alarms broke the other sounds of the battlefield and promptly after a helicopter entered the battlefield, and Soap could not penetrate the metal of the flying iron beast.

"Damn, enemy helicopters!"

"You didn't say there were helicopters, Kamarov." Price was annoyed at the sudden surprise.

"I didn't say there wouldn't be any either. We need to protect my men from those helicopter troops. This way!"

The team continued their way across the narrow pathway to a deserted, dilapidated wooden house. Gaz quietly scoffed, "We should just beat it out of him sir," to which Price replied, "Not yet."

Nick unmounted his sniper rifle, and followed them, actually overtaking them. "I'll be in a corner. If you need my sniper support, pop a flare." He crossed the wooden house to a field of grass, where a power line stood ahead, supported by iron structures. He found a quiet spot, camouflaged himself with the grass, and primed his M200. Soap switched his weapon for his carbine, and started picking off shooters rappelling down to the field from overhead helicopters. However, there was more than the team expected. Twenty shooters were firing all at once on the wooden hut! The hut withstood the damage dealt but looked as if it was about to collapse.

"There's too many of them sir!" Soap shouted, after an RPG barely missed him. Price did not answer, he just used his M203, and blasted a few off the field. Soap completely forgotten about the underbarrel M203, and utilized it to destroy a helicopter. Bang! Sure enough, the helicopter lost control, and smashed itself onto the battlefield below. More helicopters appeared, however. Gaz, realizing he held a few flare rounds for his M203, loaded the round, and shot at the group of helicopters. The round exploded at the body of a helicopter in the group, producing a brilliant white flash and then red colours.

"Flare confirmed. Proceeding to take them out." Nick loaded his M200 with Raufoss Mk 211 .50 BMG (explosive armour-piercing ammunition), and destroyed a helicopter in one shot at the rotor. The helicopter exploded mid-air. "Pretty fireworks up there. Really devastating." He proceeded to kill the second helicopter, and it fell down to the ground before exploding.

Kamarov saw down below, that his teammates need more support. He beckoned his friends to a ledge to the right of the field. "Our troops need help! Give them sniper support!" Soap and Price went to the ledge, somewhat hesitantly, and pulled out their sniper rifles once again. "Tell me Kamarov, I want that informant." He told Kamarov, who was currently in one corner, radioing his squad, and saying some Russian words. "Trust us Captain Price. We will carve a path, straight to your informant."

Price, really angry and thinking that Kamarov is delaying him and he belonging to the other army, nearly pulled out his USP just to get his rounds on his body. Soap immediately stretched his hands and pushed down the USP. "Not yet, sir." However, Price did not scold him, neither did he push him over the ledge. He replaced his USP, then continued sniping. A few more BM-21s appeared, and with the help of some RPGs, they were shrunken down to a pile of hard, cold metal.

Kamarov, seeing all this, said, "I have a favour to ask, Captain Price. Follow me to the power station."

Gaz and Price, seeing their chance, followed him, and got ready their knives. Soap followed along, waiting for the drama that may happen next. Nick, however, did not follow them. Instead, he wanted to be on the front line. With Gaz's sarcastic reply on a ghillie being on the front, he jumped off the cliff, and landed softly on the ground below. We shall leave him for now.

Kamarov, at the power line, below the iron structures, he looked at a nearby house below. "Look, the final assault has already begun. With a little more of your sniper support, we are sure to be victorious. Captain Price, I need your men..." All this time, Gaz was just sneaking up on him. Finally, he pulled out his sleek, steel blade and shoved Kamarov forward. His body lay on the parapet, his face looking fifty meters down into death. Gaz positioned his shiny blade close to Kamarov's neck. "I don't want any more of this sniping business. Where is he?"

Kamarov struggled and shoved, shouting some Russian words. Gaz ordered, "WHERE IS HE?"

"The house, the house at the north-east end of the village! Put me down!"

Gaz pulled him back, and then said, "Well that wasn't so hard, isn't it? Now go and sit in that corner." He forcefully pushed him to a corner.

Price readied some rappel ropes, then proceeded to rappel down to the ground below. Soap and Gaz did the same. They fought through the house, killing more and more, and racking up body counts. Continued fighting had worn out the team's guns, but not their spirits. The sole determination to save an informant pushed them harder. Once, Soap threw back a grenade which was about to explode. Gaz and Price did double taps onto some blokes going out of the house. "Where's that sniper?" Gaz fumed after he popped a second flare, but no sniping appeared. Bullets whizzed past them, and they were close to killing some of the team. Just then, a TGM (**T**elevision-**G**uided **M**issile) came out of a patch of grass nearby, and destroyed the house completely, causing it to collapse. The team then saw Nick re-appear out of the patch of grass. "Saved you," he replied casually.

"I didn't know you had a TGM for testing purposes!" Price remarked. "I'm a mysterious guy, don't try to understand me." Nick followed the team across the rubble of a house. They saw a big house, two storeys high, with two doors. "Hmm, looks like we attack on two fronts."

Price and the team closed in to the house. To their luck, the curtains are closed, and it meant they have really poor security. Price and Soap stationed at one point, and Gaz and Nick at the other side. Gaz then cut the power source. "Go."

The team entered the house, and equipped their night-vision goggles (NVGs). The first floor was easy. Two stupid fools were busy talking Russian. One beckoned to another at the second floor, talking something about power-cuts. Price killed him. "These night-vision goggles make it too easy..."

The team moved to the second floor, and found one sitting in a corner, holding an M9. Soap knifed him, and killed him. Suddenly, one person pushed a table, and then started shooting his AN-94 randomly. Soap killed him as well. Gaz and Nick then killed some others holding flashlights, coming out of rooms. They saw one lone room, and then one came out with an M1911. Soap, his fast reaction doing it all, shot him in the head. The bullet lay in his skull. He flopped onto the floor, his torchlight shining on a prisoner. He said in Russian, "Who are you? Special forces?"

"It's him."

Price took an AK-74u, and handed it to him. "Nikolai, are you all right? Can you walk?"

"Yes, and I can still fight. Thank you for getting me out of here."

Price and the team went out by the second entry, and nearby a helicopter was landing. It was Big Bird. They hurried in the helicopter. "Informer secure."

As the helicopter took off, Nikolai asked the crucial question, "Have the Americans attacked Al-Asad?"

"Not yet, but their invasion begins in a few hours. Why?"

"The Americans are making a mistake. **They will NEVER take Al-Asad alive."**


	4. (4:MW) USMC: Charlie Don't Surf

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic****  
**MODERN WARFARE ARC**  
**Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare****

TRANSMISSION  
After a few seconds of initializing the screen, an SAS logo shows up.  
The screen fuzzes a bit, then a few words pop up:  
Console: _Located... 'Soap' MacTavish, 22nd SAS Regiment. Caucasus Mountains, Russia.__  
_After a brief moment, the screen switches servers, and a yellow 'U.S.M.C.' logo appears.  
A name is written below it: Sgt. Paul Jackson.  
Screen loads a few consoles and windows above.  
The console then locates Jackson.  
Console: _Located...Sgt. Paul Jackson, 1st Force Recon._  
The screen fuzzes again, then loads a simulation of battleships.  
The simulation tracks a helicopter taking off from a ship.  
The simulation then zooms in to a nearby town, and bold words appear.

**KHALED AL-ASAD.**

His picture, his identity and others appear.  
Vasquez: _Marines! Spotters have a visible fix on Al-Asad at the west end of this town.__  
_The simulation sets up the ideal position of Blocking Position 1 and 2.  
Vasquez: _We're gonna secure the perimeter and grab Al-Asad! Oorah? Lock and load!__  
_The simulation goes back to the helicopters, and finally shuts down.  
TRANSMISSION END.

The helicopters move steadily towards the dry land in front of them, going so steady, although they are heading to their impending doom. The soldiers controlling the plane are courageously manoeuvring the helicopters. However, underneath the uniform and heavy weaponry is a frightened soul, no willing to turn back and head home as their doom lies ahead. Will he make it? The soul would ask. Will he dodge the fiery rockets, damaging bullets, ricocheting AA fire, and go through the hell of war to get home safely and for the country? The soul doubts it, but does not turn back in fear of revealing the secret of the soul as a coward. Then the mind interferes. Who cares? It says. You only live once anyway. And the journey continues.

"Shoreline coming into view."

"Copy, Striker 6-4."

The shoreline came into view. Nonetheless a nice little town, now a refuge for Al-Asad.

"Feet dry in ten seconds." Striker 6-4 advises.

"Copy."

Once the helicopters fly over land, they start to suffer from AA fire and RPGs nearly dodging them. Bullets fly off the ground and RPGs let loose every now and then. However, luck has its way and the RPGs' poor accuracy failed to hit even one helicopter. However, it seems that machine gun fire has more luck at damaging the flying helicopters. Jackson then pulls out his M16A4 w/ Reflex, AN/PEQ-6 and Muzzle Brake, cocks it and started to pick out targets down below. A clockwork sequence appears: aim, pull trigger, red mist, repeat.

**"Charlie Don't Surf"****  
**26th July 2011**  
**13:45:06**  
**Sgt. Paul Jackson, First Force Recon**  
**Kuwait City**  
**[MAIN OBJECTIVE: CAPTURE AL-ASAD]****

The SH-60 continued its flight path, dodging rockets and rounds. Despite that, the pilots continued, never worrying about rockets. "Taking fire here," to which a female pilot replies, "Roger, we have RPG fire down here." A Marine behind Jackson tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Here, these rounds could help," and put in his hands some incendiary shotgun rounds. "Thanks."

A 9K310 Igla-1 rocket was aimed directly at one SH-60, and the pilot, quick enough to respond, used flares. The rocket lost control and hit itself against the ground, which promptly exploded. "Shit, that was close." Another dumb missile (which means an unguided missile) flew past the helicopter, whizzing past the windscreen of the helicopter Jackson was in. The helicopter wavered, shook, and then regained control. "Hold on, I still got pressure on the pedals."

The helicopters close in to the drop-off point, and then the same pilot says, "Have a visual on the target. Five seconds. Stand by for green-light."

The helicopters approaches the city, and then slows down, the vehicle tilting backward so as to counter its speed. The helicopter slowly turns, and then hovers above the designated drop-off point. Lt. Vasquez commands, "Down the rope! Go, go!"

"Go, go, go!"

A Marine sitting at the edge of the helicopter platform pushes down a rope attached to the helicopter itself. The Marine then rappels out of the helicopter, with Jackson and Vasquez close behind. Once the Marines hit ground Vasquez got rid of the rope from his hands, and he pulled out his M4A1. Out of the blue, AA gun struck the helicopter above them, causing it to finally unbalance. It swung to the left and right, tilted again, and finally rolled 90 degrees to its starboard, crashing onto the team and close to knocking Jackson out. Once he came too, a Marine called Massey (he's a private, for trivia) pulled him back on his feet and said, "This is no time to sleep! Let's go!"

Vasquez stood up and cocked his rifle, shouting and running ahead, saying, "Second Squad on me to the target building. Let's go!" Ahead of him were two Marines setting up barbed wire fencing. One said, "That was quick, a helicopter crashed!" One Marine from the team joined the couple setting up barbed wire fencing, and then shouted, "Move it, move it! Set up blocking positions! Let's go!"

Jackson took his M16A4 on the ground, and rushed after Vasquez. He brought the team down to a narrow alley left of the fencing. As soon as the team went through, the team spotted a building two storeys tall, and pretty much torn up by some helicopter fire. It was still standing though. Vasquez immediately orders, "There's the target building! Left side door breach! Stack up!" They move into position, and Jackson sets a breaching charge - an explosive that seems to be a handle with ropes or cords attached to it - on the handle of the door. Vasquez orders, "Blow it!" As the explosive blows, Massey shouts, "Breaching, breaching!" Two OpFor flinched due to the charge, and are killed almost instantly by Jackson. "Good work Jackson. Take point."

Jackson saw a nearby staircase to his right, and went down the stairs. He nearly mad a fatal mistake though, as when he went down he was fired upon, and was close to being hit, forgetting there may be a risk of enemies, and he ran into one. An ambush. Well, no choice then, he thought. He cooked a flashbang and threw it in the canteen. The room exploded with a white flash, and OpFor started rushing out of the room, screaming and coughing. Jackson hit one with his rifle and let fly a few more rounds into the room. More OpFor exploded into blood as the NATO rounds hit them. The team entered the room, cautiously checking everybody for at least a facial feature belonging to Al-Asad. Some got close to.

"Found him sir!"

Vasquez got to a Marine holding a body, and then took a closer look at the body. It seemed that he looked like Al-Asad, but it is not him. "No, he is not. He looks like it, but negative. Does he have that lip mark?" Vasquez looked at his lip, and examined it closely. The Marine put the body down, to which it spat at him. Seems like he was sleeping, and the sod was still wearing ear plugs in his sleep. No wonder he did not hear us. Vasquez just stomped him and shot him once.

At the canteen, Jackson saw a small room at the side. He entered it, expecting to find Al-Asad, but was close to receiving a slug round in his body. The OpFor and Jackson engaged in a hand-to-hand combat. Jackson was trained, but the OpFor was much stronger than him. After some thirty seconds, Jackson, at the end of his patience, flipped the OpFor over with a Judo Throw, pulled out his P99 and shot him. He checked the dead body, and when he found out it wasn't him, he shot the body again in his genitals, and swore. He entered the room, and found out he was watching television while drinking some strong beer, He also found a Winchester 1200 on the floor, fit for his extra incendiary buckshot rounds in his reserves. "Time to burn them."

Meanwhile, Vasquez and his squad cleared out the rest of the OpFor out of the house. "We got them on their heels! Push forward!" And so the squad split to two teams, one chases the runners, the other has to stay and check the bodies. It split up nicely: seven and seven, but Vasquez ordered ten to give chase. "No fair!"

Vasquez then replies, "Al-Asad may be in the other group. They need ten so as to give lots of firepower in case it's an ambush." So it is: ten and four.

The four (with Jackson, he survived the fight anyway) checked every single body and found out that none of them were Al-Asad. Thus, Vasquez decided that he should radio the HQ first, but he received news from the other halved-squad. "None of them is him sir." Finally he got a line to HQ, and said, "HQ, this is Red Dog. Target building is secure but we don't have Al-Asad, over." Then, he received some orders and he turned to his group of four and ordered, "Heads up! I just got word Al-Asad is broadcasting half a click east of here at a TV station! We're gonna move out on foot and take down the package there. Move out." He relayed the same orders to the other group.

As the squad regrouped with the other squad, they found a large number of foot-mobiles from the east. "Contact! To the east!" The squad pulled their triggers as fast as they can, and shot at the enemies long and hard. However, most of the enemies were trained mercenaries, and they were easily picking at the squad like fingers picking away at a scab. "HQ this is Red Dog, heavy resistance from the east. Requesting air-strike." As the team continued their fire without effect, an AH-64 came in and started firing at the mercenaries, and HQ radioed Vasquez, "Permission granted. You now have OPCON to a refuelled AH-64, callsign Bigeye." The AH-64 then radioed Vasquez, "You have lots of dots coming near you, Red Dog. Going in with full payload of Hydra missiles." The helicopter flew over the land, started acquiring targets and started firing its rockets. The rockets/missiles dealt deadly damage on the mercenaries.

"Thanks very much Bigeye. Second Squad, move up!" Vasquez ordered the group and they moved along with Vasquez across torn and destroyed houses here and there. Soon enough, they reached the main road, and across it was a tall building. "Target building is close." The main road's width can be enough to fit about three cars. Jackson looked ahead, and when he found out some dust moving on the other side of the road, he knew something was coming close. Jackson then took out a grenade from his vest, and cooked it, not throwing it. He timed the blast, and at about three seconds he threw the grenade across the road. Sure enough, a truck rolled into view, and before long turned into scrap metal from the grenade explosion. The M2 on the truck fell in front of Jackson. He then proceeded to pick up the big gun. "What are you gonna do with that, Sarge?" Massey asked him. "You'll never know, Massey, you'll never know. Help me with this gun."

With one hand holding the handle and the other readying the trigger, and Massey holding the magazine and the body to counterbalance its heavy weight, Jackson moved ahead and started firing at nearby OpFor. The ammunition on the heavy gun was enough to pierce through multiple bodies at once, and that was what the duo did against enemies on the roof of a building north-east of the road they were crossing. The building collapsed soon after, allowing Vasquez and his squad to move up with such speed the others were taken aback. Bigeye commented on the gun Jackson and Massey was holding, "Nice fireworks there, didn't know you could utilize such heavy weaponry."

Now that Vasquez and his squad, not counting Jackson and Massey, have two support weapons: Bigeye and the M2, they can have some slack. The squad were just calling out their callsigns and telling them to fire at buildings. "Jackson! North-east, twenty degrees, high!" As Jackson do not have proper equipment, Jackson and Massey estimated the position by finding the source of fire. "Target acquired." The squad then replies, "Fire!" and in turn Jackson starts firing full-speed at the enemy, hard, until no enemy was left standing. Bigeye was having the same problem as well. He was painted with many targets, and sometimes the squad will argue among themselves which target Bigeye should go against first, until Bigeye came around and resolved it with an AGM-114 'Hellfire' on the enemy. When the front was clear, everyone moved up, and this went on until they reached the building. By then, Bigeye needed to rearm and refuel, and the M2 was pretty much dry of rounds, but this was quickly resolved with another box of rounds in a dry ammo cache in a dilapidated building.

Jackson and Massey, tired of carrying the M2, dropped it on the floor, reloaded it with the box another Marine helped them to carry, and joined the squad. They went to their squad, asked Vasquez some questions, and announced to the squad, "I'm gonna nominate two men. Massey, pick them." Massey then pointed to one at the left side, and another in the middle of the group. "Go and carry that M2 and aid us in our fight." The two sighed and proceeded to pick up the M2 from the ground, while Vasquez asked another squad something, and they replied, "We have the whole building locked down and surrounded sir."

"Get in position to breach."

The squad, together with Jackson and Massey, got beside the door, leaning against the wall. A Marine got a breaching charge and planted it on the handle of the side door. "Blow it." The side door blew real hard, and fell to the floor. OpFor scrambled and found themselves facing the enemy. They soon retreated with casualties, to the main room. They soon entered it, albeit slowly due to strategic MG emplacements. Soon enough, though, they reached the main room, and it was not a pretty sight. Two floors allow OpFor to rain explosive death from the dreaded RPGs, and the snipers can be kept busy there as well. Jackson had trouble finding cover due to the second floor RPGs. "Turret! Second floor, RPGs! Fire!" Jackson radioed the duo holding the M2 with this message, and shortly after, bullets from nowhere came and wiped out the troops on the second floor. They then calls, "Room clear! Move up! Al-Asad should be on the second floor!" The duo holding the M2 dumps it at the side and left it there, as the earlier firefight left the M2's barrel worn out, rendering it unusable.

The squad proceeded along the bodies of dead OpFor from the earlier carnage, and reached the front of the Radio Station, where the stairs to the second floor is located. Jackson looked out of the windows opposite the stairs, and saw a big load of tanks moving about. Must by Abrams, Jackson thought, as he looked at the tanks roll down the area where he was before he breached the door. "Yeah, there goes our boys." Massey replies as the squad stopped behind a door beside the stairs.

"Do we breach this one sir?" Jackson asked Vasquez, and he responded with five fingers - the stop sign. Hold your fire! Friendlies coming out!" Griggs opened the door as the other squad led by Ssgt. Griggs exited the room. "Didja find him, Griggs?"

"No sign of Al-Asad, sir."

Vasquez then cocks his rifle again, and a bullet fell on the ground. He placed it beside the door Griggs opened. All right. Fall in, Marines. Stay frosty."

The merged squad moves up the stairs, and entered a room to the rooftop. Inside the room was a weapons cache containing some AKs, an RPG and some Winchester shotguns, with a Dragunov SVD-S sitting on a table. "Load up, we expect some more resistance soon." True enough, outside the Radio Station, there were Marines engaged in a firefight with the OpFor. Jackson immediately smashed a window and started to kill the incoming OpFor. Massey followed suit, and soon enough the whole squad was firing as well. Vasquez looked at Griggs, who was also firing away at OpFor, shrugged comically, and joined in the fun as well. As more bullets exited the barrels and go into the OpFor's bodies, and blood flew out of the wounds gracefully, Bigeye suddenly enters and clears up the area, killing all OpFor who dares to go against it. Then, another9K310 Igla-1 rocket flew to Bigeye, barely dodging it with flares. "Gotta go guys, they've got rockets." Bigeye then promptly exited the airspace again.

Having little time on their hands left, Vasquez moves up with the squad following behind, with Griggs radioing the Marines outside, "Watch your six, Devil Dog."

After climbing some stairs and shooting again, they reached a hall, and at the end of the hall, was the Broadcasting Studio. They stacked up outside the door. "I think he's in there; I hear him." A Marine beside the door, leaning against a wall said. Since they had no more Breaching Charges and they had to be quick, the Marine shot the hinges with his scavenged Winchester 1200, and kicked the door down. The squad entered the room, but to their dismay it is empty.

"Room clear!" "He's not here."

A Marine reported, "It's on a loop...the broadcast is a recording." and Griggs sarcastically commented, "Yeah. Score one for 'military intelligence'!"

Jackson was talking to Vasquez about this business. "To be honest sir, I think Al-Asad has already left town the moment we landed. It can't be possible that he would be here once the reports come in," and Vasquez replied, "That can be true. Well, HQ can be a little illogical at times. Huh... Griggs turn that off." He radioed HQ and said, "Command, this is Red Dog. The TV station is secure but there's no sign of Al-Asad. The broadcast is a recording, over... Roger that, Command. Out."

'Roger that. I got something better to do anyway." Griggs went to a television where the broadcast is recording, and changed it to a rap song. Massey looked at the screen. It read, 'Sean Price - Church'. "Yeah, oorah."

"Marines! Rally up! We got a new assignment. Get your gear, and get ready to move out! Let's go!" Vasquez orders, and the squad readies up.

"Hey Jackson, I really want to rest." Massey complains tiredly, as he got his gear and pants.

"There can't be rest in a middle of a bloody war, Massey. Let's suck it up, and we'll talk about the war over a cup of coffee once the war ends."

"Oorah, coffee sounds good. Looking forward to it."


	5. (4:MW) USMC: The Bog

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic  
MODERN WARFARE ARC  
Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare**

TRANSMISSION  
_"After heavy fighting today, US Marines are pushing into the city where Al-Asad is making his last stand."  
_The screen zooms in to US Marines shooting at their desired targets. A simulation loaded up.  
_"Fighting has intensified in the capital city. Anti-aircraft fire and burning buildings light the night."  
_As the screen zooms out of the city on fire, Command can be heard talking. The screen continues to load the simulation.  
_"Roger on location. Repeating: Map Grid 52761-niner, over."  
_Vasquez responds. _"Bravo Six copies, over."_  
The simulation finally loads, and a tank is seen stranded in the middle of a square-ground 'battlefield'. Satellite zooms in to the tank.  
_"Bravo Six, we have an Abrams dead in the water. Callsign "War Pig". Lt. Vasquez, your unit is shotgun, over."  
"Copy. Bravo is inbound. Tell "War Pig" to stand by. We're on our way. Out."_  
TRANSMISSION END.

* * *

"Weapons check!"

The team pulled out their magazines from their rifles. Jackson checked his ammunition, counting all thirty in total. He replaced it back into his M16A4. Now that he is tasked as a frontier, he has to change his attachments. A fellow squad mate was a frontier in the earlier battle at Kuwait, and so he and Jackson decided to swap attachments. The latter's M16A4 is now fit with a reflex red-dot sight, a Masterkey, and a Muzzle Brake, and with some edits to the internal mechanism of the rifle, he is able to use more firing types, mainly '2-burst', '3-burst', 'full-auto speed', 'full-auto precision' and 'semi'. He set the lever to 'full-auto speed'. "Loaded!"

"Well check!" Jackson checked his reserve ammunition. He had six full magazines, totalling a hundred and eighty rounds, excluding his rounds in his M16A4. "OK."

"Marines! Alpha Company's tank is stuck half a click north of here. We gotta hustle! Let's go!"

Jackson picked up his rifle and stood up. He had two grenades on the floor, and he picked it up and placed it in his IMTV (Improved Modular Tactical Vest). He felt very heavy. Maybe he was hungry, or tired? Anyway, he needed a cup of tea or coffee to replenish his energy. He checked his weapons again, to make sure he was in good condition. He then proceeded to check his underbarrel Masterkey, and found he was one round short. From his IMTV, he pulled out a buckshot round, with its red paint contradicting the shining gold-metal finish, and pushed it into the hole under the shotgun, the magazine. It went it, make a 'clack' sound and stayed there.

Several Marines went forward, and an eager Marine rushed forward, to be the first to look at the heat of battle. "Move it! Move it!" Vasquez ordered him to stop, "Hey! Don't go too quickly! There may be a..." Before he managed to finish his sentence gunfire ruptured from a nearby torn-down building, raining rounds onto the eager Marine. He fell flat on the floor, a neat hole punctured straight through his head. Another Marine, in front of Jackson, took multiple bullets and acted as Jackson's meat shield before falling to the floor with a loud thud. "Ambush!"

Jackson owed his life to the Marine in front of him, and thought, "So this is how walking into fire feels like..."

"Contact right! Contact right!" Everything was happening so quickly, Jackson had little time to react, and he lifted his gun quickly and started rapidly firing at the building. He feels shrivelled, and ran searching for cover after his burst. He hid behind a car for cover, panting and puffing. Fighting a team of OpFor is like courting death with Death himself, and this team had a machine gun. Nonetheless, he made his progress slowly, and surely.

"Get suppressing fire on that building! We have to move forward!"

**"The Bog"  
28th July 2011  
04:07:02  
Sgt. Paul Jackson, First Force Recon  
Undisclosed location  
[MAIN OBJECTIVE: SAVE ALPHA COMPANY'S TANK]**

Jackson flipped his switch to 2-burst, and started bursting at the building. The building was bursting with gunfire, with streams of bullets down to the squad. Vasquez rightly predicted that they have a machine gun. Sensing an opportunity, he decides to command Jackson and a few more squad members to take out and secure the machine gun, with the rest of the company giving covering fire. "Jackson! Get in the building and take that machine gun! Roycewiz, follow him!"

The two proceeded to enter the building as quickly as possible to prevent getting rained down by MG fire.

"Jackson, you and Roycewiz head upstairs. We'll cover this entrance. Go!" Vasquez commanded Jackson to move on, and Jackson gave the positive. "Roger."

"Hey, Royce, get up front!" Roycewiz looked at Jackson incredulously. "Why?"

"Just get in front. I'll cover."

"You owe me a cup of coffee for that." Roycewiz looked forward and entered the building's basement.

Once they were safe inside the building, they activated night vision and entered the building's second floor. However, while going up the stairs, Roycewiz was confronted by an ambusher.

* * *

Roycewiz climbed up the stairs, his M16 primed for fire. Out of the blue, a sudden, swift strike attacked Roycewiz quick as the enemy appeared out of the wall, as if he had melted away from the wall's camouflaging look. His M16 fell to the ground, freeing both his hands. The AK-74 on the OpFor's hands was bashed repeatedly onto Roycewiz as he grappled with the enemy and pushed him against the wall. As the OpFor was stuck to the wall, gasping, choking, by Roycewiz's inhumane grip, received through the rigorous training and punching and pushing and many, many more exercises, the OpFor pulled out his short blade dagger, a last means of resort to appease the intensifying grip. Quickly, Jackson noticing this, pulled his trigger at point blank, raining rounds and rounds of ammunition on the choking victim, each bullet passing through his body, his face, stomach, groin and legs. Blood gushed out rapidly out of the holes as the OpFor twisted himself onto the ground, dead.

* * *

"Thanks." Roycewiz replied as he picked up his scratched M16.

Jackson pulled out his magazine, finding out he burnt through ten rounds killing an enemy. He needs more. "Got a spare?"

Roycewiz heard him, and pulled out a magazine from his vest, and tossed it at Jackson. It fell neatly on Jackson's hand. "I got some. Feel free to ask."

The two proceeded up the stairs, rifles primed. Jackson switched from his rifle to his Masterkey. He had one round in the chamber, and three in the magazine. He covered Roycewiz while moving up the stairs. On the second floor, more OpFor were firing on the team below. Roycewiz did a short radio. "Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Friendlies on the second floor!" Roycewiz then proceeded to fire onto the OpFor firing on the team below, bursting more after every kill. He ran out of bullets after killing few. Jackson came in and continued the fire with his Masterkey. "Let's get to the other end. I believe there's a machine gun."

"Turning weapons against them, eh?"

Jackson took the lead, and hustled his way to the end of the dark, collapsing passage. An RPG-7 lay on the ground as he rushed through. Once at the other end, he saw some more OpFor firing their machine gun, an RPD mounted on the wall. He let fly a Masterkey round, killing the duo manning the gun. One more sniper getting ready to fire spotted him, and he shot his SVU-AS on to Jackson. It nearly hit him, an inch away from his right arm, and flattened itself on the wall behind him. Concrete dust puffed out of the hole the bullet marked, and impaired Roycewiz's vision. Jackson quickly pushed his forestock back, then forth, and fumbled for his trigger. He touched his trigger guard. While the OpFor's SVU jammed, Jackson got good hold of the Masterkey and let another round to the sniper's face. He dropped his SVU. "Goody. A sniper rifle."

Roycewiz's face returned to his incredulous face, and asked another question, "You used an SVU?"

And to which Jackson replied, "Yes. In the past weapons training."

He picked up the rifle, and found out a gun strap was attached to the rifle. "Much better, now I can sling it on my back." He sensed this sniper could get in handy sooner or later, as he catches a glimpse of the far away highways. Gunfire erupted from his left. "Gunfire!"

Jackson ducked, only for a .50 caliber to whizz through his helmet. It fell on the jagged ground. He quickly manned the mounted RPD and started firing crazily, hitting the enemies on the opposite side, with maximum effect. Bullets drove through the wall as more OpFor died from impacts of the rounds. Vasquez radioed them, "Cut 'em down! Shoot them through the wall!" Soon enough, the other side of the building was dead. "Great job!"

"Be advised, more enemy troops are converging on the tank. Get there A.S.A.P!" Vasquez's radio was responding with this message. Vasquez heard it, and knew he was running out of time. "Roger, we are working on it, out!" Vasquez rallied his squad quickly. Jackson pulled out his SVU and cocked it. It was jammed. Jackson wasn't fazed. He took a rod from the ground and poked the jammed round. It came out and hit his face with force. Finally, Jackson cocked his rifle again, and this time, the bullet was chambered and primed. Good, he thought, and pulled out his M16A4. He picked up his holed helmet and capped his head.

While he was exiting the second floor to move on to Alpha Company, he spotted a few Marines breaching a door, and entering it, killing enemies inside. Jackson asked the Marines in the room: "Hey, do you need any rounds?"

"Two magazines empty, Sarge. Need ammunition." Jackson promptly answered, "What caliber?"

"Your M16's caliber." Jackson threw a magazine in the room, and it fell on the floor. "Use this."

"Thanks, Sarge."

Jackson moved quickly down the stairs, and found out Vasquez blew a locked door leading to the other side of the building. OpFor flooded there, packed like sardines, however, not so dense. There were a flurry of fighters, coming in waves, and instantly reminded Jackson of a game "Tower Defense". Apart from the machine gunners and rockets, and rifles with snipers, there were the tanks. T-90s and -80s. The tanks turned their guns round and started firing on the squad, bursting big bullets from their huge cannons, however the rounds' velocity made it easy to dodge. "There's too many of them sir!"

Vasquez had his hands enough with this business. Other than keeping Alpha Company informed, and doing dirty work, he also had to shut mouths in his squad. Angered, he furiously shouted, "Shut up and keep them pinned down! I don't want any more of those idiots standing!"

"Roger that. SUPPRESSING FIRE!" That Marine got out of cover and started firing mad, penetrating multiple infantry. Jackson switched to his SVU and picked off the snipers quick. In no time flat his first SVU magazine was empty. Rounds came to retaliate against the oncoming horde. Although Jackson and his squad are strong, OpFor's sheer numbers crushed Vasquez as well, pinning him to cover. A Marine was shot in the face with a 9 mm round (pistol round). He got up back to his feet and wrestled with his assaulter. Finally, that Marine kicked his boil, then beat the daylights out of the idiot before using him as a body shield. Grasping the dead body, placing his head on the Marine's shoulder, he moved forward himself, smacking the body onto more enemies coming to his way, only to be shot by a tank round. His body disintegrated, along with the human shield, leaving behind a helmet and his bent M4. The tank once more reloaded, and turned slowly. Finally its big head rested on aiming at the dilapidated building, and shot it with such power and velocity half the whole building collapsed, erupting a minor earthquake round the area. Vasquez was shocked.

"Those tanks are posing a threat. West, use your Javelin!" Vasquez commanded. West came out of his hiding spot, a big, tubular rocket in his hands. He came to be known as Private West. Private West pivoted the tube on his shoulder, his hands gripping the handle of the oversized launcher. He aimed it at the tanks coming, and steadied, his shoulders reddening for holding the super big tube on his shoulder. The tank aimed at West, the hollow gun pointed straight at West's eyes. This was like a cop pinning a robber to the floor, and the hollow cylinder from the cop's guns aimed at the robber, and the barrel demanded a "Surrender." In a split second West's right arm disappeared from sight. Blood gushed at high pressure from the hole from his incapacitated arm. Had West not jump from his spot from Vasquez's demands, he would have been a million shattered pieces on the ground, and another bent M4 with a roasted helmet would decorate the gore. Jackson pulled West back in to the shelter of the building, just as the blasted T-90 drove another round back to the ground. "Vasquez, West needs help here!"

"Patch him up his hole. Jackson, fill his place!"

Jackson pulled out a first-aid kit, and pulled out a long roll of bandage. He taped it all over West's arm, covering it like a child tying a gift and wrapping it. Once Jackson was done, West's arm looked more like a lump of white sheets than an arm bandage. The whole lump was like a stone, about a few centimetres in diameter, and it looked like a mummy undressed itself and wrapped all of its paper all over the decapitated arm. "You are very lousy at bandaging, man." West lamented quickly. Jackson took it as humour, and tapped the lump twice or thrice. "At least it is defended well."

Jackson got out of cover, and ran forward. He picked up the Javelin quickly, and ran to another building. Being agile, he ran up the stairs, and jumped to another building as the building he once was on a second ago blew. The intensifying heat and fear that crept up his skin, the fear of being shot, propelled him to run faster, even as the heavy tube started to weigh him down. The bloody tank had spotted him and Jackson had to be fast. He quickly spotted _another_ tank aimed straight at him, and he became Private West, but not his fate was sealed in Jackson's. He initiated parkour to another building as the previous collapsed. Jackson had to take a chance. He had to be quick, or he will be blown to kingdom come. He knelt swiftly, locking his posture to place. He looked into the sights and pointed it at his archenemy, the T-80. The two seconds of lock-on felt like a million eternities. Jackson felt that he would blow up, however, as luck had it, the tank jammed its cannon. Its secondary is also dead. A soldier got out of the tank and tried to man the secondary, only for a rocket to land on his head. The tank blew up, the cannon flying out of its place.

He jumped to the last building he thought he can reach, but almost fell down. He got back up on his feet and did the same to another tank. The T-90 jumped out of its spot, its parts flying out and everywhere. It then exploded as the engine failed to keep its heat down. The other two started to run. "Good job Jack! Finish the others!"

Jackson did exactly that, and two other piles of burning metal lay on the highway. "Nice carnage! We would expect many bodies."

Magically, the swarm disappeared into where they came from, and piles and piles of bodies lay on the floor. Jackson twitched, thinking how it feels to be dead. He stood on the roof of the one of the few buildings left standing. Two were just rubble, another disintegrated, and his was still standing despite fire. His Javelin had run half-dry, the scope cracked from an incoming gunshot, his SVU's barrel dead, and his M4 is running dry. He jumped off the building, looked at the ground and started searching everywhere in hope to find some ammunition. It was successful: he found a few magazines of M4, some chock-full, some halved, but there is ammunition. He struck jackpot when he found an M4 magazine with incendiary ammunition. He also found another SVU, which barrel is still new, and an RPG-7. "Perfect for playing tank."

In the dead zone a few Marines lay. Jackson took this opportunity to do the traditional: helmet-on-rifle. He took the earlier Marine's rifle and bashed the barrel onto the solid, hard floor. It went in and stood there. Then, he placed the smoking cap on top. The Battle Cross was now complete. He bowed to the roasted ashes on the floor, saying his prayers, and decided the rest have the same ceremony done. In no time the battlefield that once had OpFor as its occupants now had five standing helmets as the occupant. Vasquez silently looked at Jackson, and decided staying silent would be the best idea.

In front of the squad there was a metal fence: those fences which have those zig-zag patterns and are extremely difficult to break. The squad has an idea though: Vasquez produced a bottle of acid spray, and after some sprays and tugs and pulls and grunts, the fence came loose. Time was running out: that tank is a precious asset. And they are to save it. "Bravo Six, we're taking heavy fire on our position north of the overpass! Where the hell are you?!"

"We're almost there! Hang on!" Vasquez was getting pissed and mad. So much work to do, yet this gratitude? Vasquez shut his radio.

"The tank's on the other side of that overpass! Come on - let's get back to the squad!" Massey ran after Jackson, panting and puffing from the weight of both his gun and the IMTV he had. He had half of his grenades, a quarter of rounds left holstered and his HUD screen cracked. His ballistic helmet already punctured many holes. His uniform was unkempt, blood strewn all over it. A trickle of blood came from a hole in the uniform. The size made it clear: Jackson guessed it was a 9mm. "You OK? Does the 9 millimetre in your body hurt?"

Massey dropped his rifle, looking at Jackson. He looked dazed, "I got shot?"

"Look at yourself. You're a bloody mess from head to toe; you need a mop to clear the floor."

Massey craned his neck to see his body. He found the ridiculous stub of what was originally the tail of a 9 milimeter. Immediately he felt a shear of pain rushing up his nerves, taking his brain almost by surprise. The intense hot-sizzling pain of the bullet made him jump like mad, up and down, up and down, until Jackson pulled him back to ground and pulled out the bullet with haste. This fractured his brain more, sending signals of uncontrollable feelings of pain from his nerves to all around his body. "Stop! Stop! I feel like exploding!" Jackson hurriedly pasted that hole with tape West used earlier on: it was with him, in his pocket. He then reinforced the rope with more of the healing tape, and Massey turned into another Marine with a mummified part: the same bulge West had. The pain softened, and it seemed that the tape did its job. "Don't fight any more, Massey."

"Thanks, man. I thought I am going to die." Massey picked up his rifle, with the pain suddenly seizing his hand again. He fell on the floor, screaming again. Jackson picked him up. "See what you get out of not listening?" Jackson picked up Massey's Mk14 EBR, placed it in Massey's hands, and said, "You shall be sniping." Massey grumbled, but he had no choice. He had to do it and that was that. Jackson pat his shoulder, "At least you're not going to be walking. At this state, you aren't walking."

Jackson hoisted him up onto his shoulder, Massey's legs on Jackson's right shoulder, and Massey's hands on Jackson's left. Jackson bent forward, to give Massey some balance and keep him awake. Massey's IMTV was adding on to Jackson's weight. This did not weaken Jackson, though. He looked on, and galloped forward, to regroup with Alpha team. His HUD shows that he is close, not more than a hundred meters away from the site of the stranded tank. The number kept decreasing, and Jackson went through houses of dilapidated attap houses, with metal roofs protecting them. Jackson ran and ran, but stopped once he saw a building. "Why did you stop, Sarge?"

Jackson suspected the house of something. He closed in to the house, still with Massey on his back. Jackson's backbone was straining but he kept Massey on the bone. Jackson crept in the house quietly, and suddenly, straight out of the blue, a bullet went past Jackson, a mere centimetre from Jackson's right hand. "Contact!"

What they saw inside was a dead man. The pistol fired due to it dropping on the floor, resulting in the miss although at point-blank range. "Another close shave with death, eh Jackson?" Vasquez found the body there, lying in the mess of blood. "Yes, sir. That was close."

On the table they found a magazine of SVU rounds, full to the brim. Jackson picked it, Vasquez saying, "Nice SVU." Jackson placed the rugged magazine onto his IMTV, happy he received ammunition. The SVU behind him gleamed in Vasquez's eyes. "You sure you are going to keep that? You know we don't accept Russian weapons right?"

"Self-defense is the key..."

Finally they crossed the houses and reached an open landscape. The landscape was crowded with many OpFor, shooting randomly at the tank, hoping to pierce some of its armour. The field is so big! What was once scrap metal over green grass and lush environments is now a ground full of dead bodies and guns, rifles and pistols, with OpFor firing rockets decorating the scene like a master icing a wedding cake with maximum precision. Vasquez ran over to one of the Alpha Team members, firing away beside the M1A2 Abrams, and asked, "What's the situation?"

"We're still surrounded sir! There's just four of us left; two more wounded but the tank's still OK sir!" Vasquez thought hard for a solution and saw rushing people to the east. He decided moving the tank to somewhere safe would be risky and time-wasting. It would be good to take up defensive positions: though risky, still the opponent had to face a barrier before the tank. "Jackson, tell the rest to take position to defend the tank!"

Massey sat on a grass patch, close to the tank, after instructing Jackson to put him there. Jackson lay him there, and gave him a final magazine of Mk14 rounds. "This would be useful! Have a problem, whistle." Massey gave a test whistle, and it was high and fluety, loud and clear. Jackson told the rest of the squad to ready up for a heavy fight and defense. "Righty-O, sarge!" was the conventional reply. A few privates cocked their rifles and took their positions beside the tank, a corporal took a light machine gun off from his back: it was an M249 SAW (**S**quad **A**utomatic **W**eapon). It was painted matte-black, with a chrome barrel as its finish. The corporal lay on the floor, and stuck his M249 to the ground with its bipod. A Marine made good use of his surroundings again and turned a bow and arrow against the OpFor. "What is the use of that, Marine?" Jackson quipped with curiosity, and the reply was, "This bow had a quiver of explosive arrows; don't want them to miss all this killing fun!"

Soon enough, the fun really started. "Contacts to the east and more flanking to the south! Hold the perimeter!"

"Bravo Six, this is War Pig! The main gun's offline but we still have our machine gun!" The tank radioed Vasquez, and he said, "They're movin' in with det-packs! Don't let 'em get close to the tank!"

The squad started to fire on the incoming enemies with high accuracy. Jackson fired at the waves of incoming OpFor, but more and more just kept coming! The onward ready rush of enemies bothered the squad. If they were to be outnumbered, how are they going to protect the tank? The tank would be blown, and nothing would be left for Overlord, except the scrap metal that once dominated the battlefield, and what seems to be the defeat of the Marines. Massey went on and sniped lots of targets for himself, and he aimed for their heads well; every target Jackson points at would be most probably shot by an oncoming round from an Mk14. The Marine with the bow and arrow can be named the 'Green Arrow' (A.N. Green Arrow is a master archer, male, and he is a hero in DC Comics. His real name is Oliver Queen); he aimed, drew his arrow, and the arrow laid smack on an OpFor's face. His distorted expression disappeared after the explosion, damaging some nearby. This Marine was well hidden, and his arrow came out of nowhere like how OpFor came out of nothing. The Corporal busily fired at the waves of enemies with his Machine Gun, tearing through many opponents willing to stand against him and the tank. An Alpha Team Marine decided that explosive ammunition would have come in handy. Jackson heard what he was thinking, and without thinking himself, took some rounds from his IMTV: green coloured and scary looking, and placed it in that fellow Marine's W1200. It was the incendiaries that came from the earlier mission. Jackson did not utilize it; his fellow Marine would.

Soon enough, the place turned into a burning hellish apocalypse. Thanks to the W1200, it made a great portable hell creator. The ground burnt wildly, starting a mini fire. Any OpFor who was caught in the flames of death would die burning. Deadly to any human: armoured or not, this leaping inferno produced loads of carbon dioxide and smoke, damaging any personnel in terms of breathing and vision. Vasquez commented, "Nice use of the fireworks there."

Vasquez needed air support, and thus decided that an air strike would do them good. "Overlord, requesting air strike!"

"Negative Bravo 6. There is an enemy ZPU in one of the buildings. We cannot send any more air support until that ZPU is knocked out."

Vasquez shouted over to Jackson, "Jackson, take out the ZPU in that building, go! Lopez, Gaines, cover him!" To the others he shouted, "All right, move out! Secure the western approach!"

Jackson ran out of rounds, and all the other rounds on the floor were all M4 rounds, not suitable for his rifle. He decided kamikaze would do well. He pulled his knife out of his holster, and ran as quickly as he can to the building marked by Vasquez, avoiding rounds everywhere. He ran like a bolt of lightning. Finally, after Lopez and Gaines had a hard time keeping up, Jackson reached the ZPU. He gave up: it was too risky to run in and run out alive. He threw the C4 in the area with the ZPU, and ran out of the building, holding the button in his hands, pressuring it with his hands as hard as he can. The building exploded behind him, before the building collapsed into a heap of concrete, bringing the ZPU with it. The aftermath: a worn-out, bent ZPU barrel stuck out of the rubble.

"Jackson, they need to locate you quick! Use your beacon!" Jackson was tired, "How long more?"

"Just go! This is an order."

With his final breath, he ran across the bulleting battlefield, seeing some zinc cover with machine guns mounted on top of them. Jackson bolted, and accidentally struck some debris, dropping his beacon. Altogether, the beacon lighted. "Roger that, going in with full pay load." What happened next: an AH-64 drove in, and when it drove out, nothing was left in the battlefield, except the tank and the Marines. "Do you see any more?" "Negative: we're going home."

Vasquez requested for a regroup. "Regroup! Go to the tank." Already, Vasquez drew the battle plan for the next attack, and highlighted to the rest they would be driving the tank out of the crap town. The Green Arrow ran out of arrows. Jackson drew near him, asking him a question, "Need more arrows?"

"Sure."

"What ingredients?"

"Sticks, metal rounds, gun powder, string, glue and a big load of gore. And wash your face off the green paint."


	6. (4:MW) SAS: Hunted

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic  
MODERN WARFARE ARC  
Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare**

* * *

TRANSMISSION  
The satellite tracks the Black Hawk carrying the S.A.S. team and Nikolai flying over western Russia, heading west towards Hamburg, Germany.  
_Overlord: Guess they're heading home._  
_Gaz: We've got Nikolai! We're taking him to the safehouse in Hamburg! E.T.A., Oh-seven hundred hours! Out!_  
The camera views into Sgt. "Soap" MacTavish.

* * *

**48 Hours and 6 minutes from event of "The Bog" ago...**

Soap's helicopter flew through the sky, its rotor blades making lots of noise in the sky, and Price looked out of the side doors of the helicopter. Below them was a big green load of pasture, houses strewn here and there, like children throwing things on the floor. As the helicopter slices the dark sky a bright flash is seen near a house. "So this is how Russia is now, eh?" Nikolai comments, with a hint of laughter. "True, messed up, Al-Asad's going mad, some live firing down there. I see an RPG." Price looks out of the side doors again. Some lights flash now and then, randomly firing, and lights fly up into the sky. It seems like the town was bursting with flames and the streaks of lights are tell-tale signs of that. Then, as the helicopter ascended, a big flash and a trail of smoke was noticed by Price. "Wait, what is that?" The trail of smoke entered Price's brain slowly, then the answer rang to him like a chiming bell.

"Oh not now-at-helluva-times. It's a missile." The slow and shaky path which the missile took was slow - it told Price they were locked on. "Brace for impact." The missile then hit the belly side of the aircraft. The plane went into an uncontrollable continuous turn to the left. All this happened so quick - Soap had no time to put all into his head and had little time to know what was going on. The last thing the pilots said was, "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Hammer 6-4, we're going down, I repeat, we are going down 2 miles south of Wake 45..."

And a crash sounded. Soap's view blacked out. Nothing else.

**"Hunted"  
26th July 2011  
04:01:02  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Western Russia  
[Survive.]**

Black.

It's all black.

Nothing. Some sounds penetrated the background.

Other than that, nothing.

Some flashes of bright light, then some colour, _ah, yes, some colour..._

_Price, and Nikolai, and the pilots. They seem so far..._

In the blurred view, he saw - fire, moving images, a rotor, grass, a bridge...

Then nothing.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

"You're still in one piece - get up." An explosion. Soap tried to open his eyes, but the explosion jolted him awake and, suddenly, he woke up. He saw Price hoisting him up to his feet. His grip Soap registered. Soap looked around. It was a mess - fire and a helicopter wreckage. The only thing he remembered last was a missile hitting the side of the vehicle and they spun out of control. After that was a gap in the head, as if a person drilled a hole straight into his thoughts and extracted the memories with brutal force like a miner searching for coal and dust and throwing them aside. But, now was not the time to wreck brains - it was a time to get started on improvising his state and condition. He lifted his hand to his head, and then gripped a knob, turned it clockwise, and released. His HUD started.

"Get a weapon to know its statistics." The computer informed Soap, and Soap ran over to the wreck, in hope for a weapon to defend himself. A helicopter - not friendly - drove overhead, noticing the survivors below, and thus turned round. "Come on, we need to get out before the search parties get here." Gaz fumbled over a body, clothed in uniform. Price then said, "Casualty report."

"Both pilots are dead sir." Gaz replied.

"Bugger. Nikolai, you OK?" Nikolai got up from his daze, and cocked his AK-74u. "Yes, Captain Price, I think I am ready."

Just then, Soap lost his balance and fell on the floor, kneeling in front of the wreck, and out of his mouth came an endless stream of mix of random materials. Blood trailed the fountain stream. Price came over and pat on Soap's back, "Seems like he isn't. Soap, get a weapon. Maybe a sub?" Price handed a small gun and shoved the handle on Soap's hand. Soap gripped it, and stopped his 'endless stream'. His other hand clutched his chest, coughing a few times, over and over. He then took the gun in his hands, cocking it. Meanwhile, he spotted a sword on the floor. Time to play contract killer, Soap thought. Holstering his MP5, later he found out, he picked up a scope-less M24 Sniper Weapon System. "The Remington Arms 24. Redesigned from the Remington 700, it chambers 7.62 x 51 millimetre NATO rounds. Current ammunition is 5 and 30 reserved."

Price radioed Baseplate, and after the radio transmit, Price ordered, "All right, the extraction point's not far from here. Let's move out." The air around the team was cold and only the fire kept the team warm. Soap felt reluctant to leave; how was he to survive if the weather was that cold? He then surveyed his armour, and noticed a small button written as 'XE'. "Soap, Gaz, activate XE." Nikolai was the poor one: he did not have a combat vest or armour, and had to stand out in the cold. Furthermore he could not bring some burning debris to keep him warm as it will give away the squad's position. Too bad for him, Soap thought, and activated the XE on his armour. Soon enough, he started to feel warm. Baseplate radioed them, saying, "Bravo Six, this is Baseplate. AC-130 Gunship support is on the way, but it will take some time before they will be in a position to assist, over."

"Copy. Bravo Six out." Price turned to Gaz, and Gaz said, "An AC-130, eh? Haven't worked with one of those in a while, for now that is."

Price silences Gaz, "Keep a low profile. Let's stay out of trouble."

They then saw a bridge, and to horror a few trucks coming through. Price shut off his XE, it was producing too much light to give away their position. "Get under that bridge - now." Under the bridge was a stream flowing through the opening under the arcing bridge. It leads to a small rural village - "or is it?" asked Price.

The team then rushed to the opening under the bridge, and shrouded themselves under the bridge, to make sure no one else was looking for them. The stream they stood on was raw and freezing. Soap turned off his XE as well, and instantly felt the freezing cold of the water. Above them, the pounding of the diesel engines from the enemy vehicles died out - they had disappeared over the bridge and went off to search for the helicopter. "It won't be long before someone knew we escaped and trail our tracks. So let's pick up pace."

They race to the rural village in town. The village was silent and most had evacuated early before the war had started. A few barks from dogs here and there. Nothing else rang through the town. And so, the team ran through grass patches, nobody else around. They quietly moved through the thick, dark green grass, like foxes hunting their prey. Their guns cocked. Silent. "Over there, Soap." They approached a nearby, half-destroyed, half-gone wood house, and a door stood at the other facade of the house. The house was floored wood, green, mossy wood. It creaked when Price stuck his boots onto the panels, and it resonated throughout the surroundings, forcing a bird to leave its' shelter, in a flutter to escape the creepy sound.

They entered a garage. "What's that sound?" an Ultranationalist's sound cut through the silence like daggers through thin air. "Nah, this place is a dump. It's the rats' work." Both the Ultranationalists laugh with a strong Russian accent. The accent brought a farmer out into piercing lights of the flashlights from the laughers' guns. "What's going on here? What do you want?" Unbeknownst to the farmer, the group is right behind the perpetrators. "Don't be dumb. You know well you hid those people."

"Man is torturing the poor bastard. Let's take him. Soap." The poor farmer, staggering while leaning on his door, was ignorant of everything. "Hiding? Who? Wha-"

"British soldiers!" "British?"

"Alright, let's top these bastards before the kill the old man." Soap opened the garage door a crack, and then squeezed his weapon he held between the opening. The farmer noticed, and shouted a quick, "Shoot them!" before slamming his door and hiding himself from sight. Soap pulled the metal trigger. One and one shot. In a fraction of a second two bodies lay on the floor. "Good shots, Soap."

The team opened the garage door fully. Nikolai opened the door and walked over to the door the farmer hid. "Hey, you will be OK." Nikolai spoke in Russian. The farmer was silent. Meanwhile, Soap had some quick chatter with Price. "Where do you think is Nick?"

Price then said, casually, "Bugger's took off. He said to find a good path to get out of here. Took his radio and told me to radio him." He channelled his radio to Nick's radio. "Nick?" No sound. Just static. Soap took it and fiddled around with it. Turns out it was still set at the wrong frequency. Soap turned it counter clockwise, and some fizzing.

"...and you have British with them? *bang* **No!** I told you - tell me where the British are, or I will shoot! *thud*** *cough* Even if you hit me with your auto many times, even if you burn me, I said no! There are no British!... ***thud*** I said, no Brit...**" Soap heard through the radio - all this is in Russian, and there is a lot of static. Nikolai came over and listened closely. "He is in trouble, Price. Even as we speak our comrade is being interrogated!" The team then continued listening, even though they needed to move on. They _have_ to listen. "...you fool! I do not care. If I don't see a British in ten minuto... *thud* you shall be meat for food... for our mangy dogs! *laughter* *thud* **Why don't you listen, there are no British in your soil. ***thud* Liar! Do you not see that a helicopter went down? You are one of them. You are lying to your grave! *heavy thud*** *spitting***"

"Now we have another problem on our hands. Still, I have to give credit to the Russians for being smart and dumb." Price cocked his rifle and moved out of the garage. They have to move on - otherwise, he may be hit to the core. "Serves Nick right," a jealous Soap says before getting snapped by a small plant - a nettle. "Serves you right for that one, too. He was just covering us." Price then opened a metal fencing just linked to the small farm, east of the garage. As he opened it, the similar sound of a turboshaft came back. It got louder and louder, coming from a direction. North, maybe. Price did not take it seriously. He knew it was going to fly to another area, then come back. The team then entered a grass field. Large, with tall grass springing out of the ground, waving to and fro to the wind.

But as they continued, Price then saw the humongous helicopter with its dreaded searchlights entering the patch. "Spotlight, hit the deck." The team dropped their rifles and fell flat on the floor. They made a small thudding sound, as helicopter came from the front, its powerful searchlights beaming the ground, flooding it with white colours. It flew over the team, its menacing searchlights pointing straight at them. Their uniform colours blend well with the dark grass. Price ordered, "Stay down... stay - down." And so they lay there, as if they have died. Soap tasted the mud when he went prone, and he could not stand the odour and texture of the watery brown object just a bare inch from his face. He could have been able to paint out the whole scenery of what was happening on the ground: the ants, the mud, everything minus texture.

Then, the helicopter, disappointed with its find, flew off in search for other locations the team may possibly be. However, this helicopter would never find them.

The team got up. Soap brushed off the dirt on his face and mouth, and spat a few times over. "I'm never going to eat vegs again." Soap replied as the dirt leaves human skin. Price did not notice, rather saying, "That house may help with our cover." Incredulous Soap asks, "Where?" to which he gets his answer. Three hundred meters away, toward the direction of the helicopter approach, was a small wooden house of old, very small and rather unnoticed. "Let's hope we can find ourselves a good ol' copter and get out of here. In the disguise of searching for us."

They approached the house quickly. To their utter dismay they forgot the tall grass. It made so much noise when the team was moving across the ground it caught the attention of a nearby sentry. "Who are you? British?" Price looked behind him to shock, and tried to locate the nearest cover. "Contact, six o'clock." Gaz readied his gun and Soap checked his ammunition. He knew they were coming. His hands, he held a sniper rifle, and he knew, they were headed directly for the team. "What a reckless bunch of people. I'll take them." Soap looked into his scope, and fired one, round onto an oncoming Russian squadron leader.

* * *

A bang, the heated, slim metal left the barrel. It travelled through the air, not letting anything slow down its pace and velocity. The bullet wavered to the left, then right, and then left again. The fight between the air and bullet went on. As the small war continued, it swept past an Ultranationalist, and fell into contact with another one of the unlucky ones. His face was punctured, the high force and pressure breaking through his skull and skin, the impact forcing his skull in half, snapping his neck right through, blood forcefully ejected the same as the bullet exited the barrel. The blood then flooded the victim's face, the bullet making its way into the brain, and then stopping there. The brain then burst into half, rupturing his vessels completely. He slowly fell onto the floor, knee first, then his head, and finally, his face. One more kill.

* * *

"Soap, good shot." Gaz replied, seeing that Soap brought a seventy-kilo man to his knees with a shot. But that did not shake morale. Rather, it forced everyone to go haywire. Everyone started firing at all directions, following their brains' logic of firing-in-the-dark-at-anyone-moving, killing many of their own. "Gaz, we'll hold them off! Get that basement door open now!" Gaz looked behind him and saw the door, shouting, "I'm on it!" He ran over to it, and started to crush it with his boots, but to no avail. He tried using his rifle on the padlock.

The padlock budged. It was iron-hard. "Nothing!"

Price saw more incoming, and if he did not do anything to open the door they may be trapped. He pulled a pin of a grenade, and jumped straight for the door, driving the grenade into the door. "Run!"

Everyone ran, only to see the door burst open and explode. They rush into the small opening, starting from Price, then Gaz, and Nikolai, finally Soap. They got in barely in time; the entrance collapsed as Soap entered. "Soap! Take point and scout ahead for an exit." He tossed Soap a small gun, an M1911. This gun would save him later. "Roger, sir." He took Price's gun and rushed toward the front of the cellar. A staircase hid there, and that was exactly where he went. It led up to the ground level. It was clean and nothing weird to it. And Soap spotted a back door to exit. What he did not know: a flashbang dropped in front of him. "Flashbang!"

Bing!

Soap felt white, some clothes, and a gunshot. Some gunshots. His vision blurred, he lunged forward, smacking his head on the wall. He fell on the floor, comically, almost unconscious. He lay there, until the bright light dissipated. A hand gripped his hand. "Get up, Soap. No time to sleep in the middle of war!" Price pulled him up, Soap's view getting clear. What he saw was a plain Ultranationalist on the floor, dead with blood pooling around him. "He's done for."

"Where'd everyone go?" Soap looked around; the house was empty. It seemed like a good safehouse. "Not a good idea to stay here, Soap. They are falling back, maybe regrouping. Stay alert."

Soap moved his way. He checked his own self, then his rifle, and Price's pistol. Looking around for the pistol, Soap got frustrated. How can a person search for something in the dark? He thought of it well, and got on all fours just searching for a sign of the cold, heart metal feel of an M1911. Price came behind him and conked his shoulder with his pistol. "Right here."

Soap got up and punched Price on the shoulder. "Hey! That's not very nice!"

"Get some water on your face." Price pulled Soap back on his feet. Soap, still delirious and in a drunken stupor of his own, lifted his rifle, making sure it is in a mint condition and it's not jammed. "Okay, I'm good."

"It's too quiet. Where did those blokes run off to, now?" The now-piercing silence struck both Price and Soap. In a rushed and rapid firefight in a house, at least one or two Ultranationalists would've been alive. Still, eerily, the entire house is silent. No sound, enough to just hear the faint drop of a pin. The stillness of the environment suggested to Soap an incoming ambush up ahead, but to Price, they were simply regrouping. As hierarchy would have its way, Price commanded a careful approach. "Slickers must be regrouping. Trying to cut us off somewhere up ahead."

"Stay sharp."

Soap, since he is implanted in the hierarchy from the beginning, followed Price's orders, staying behind another fellow S.A.S. mate. Exiting through an open door leading out of the house, and to the front porch. Just outside, the distant sounds of fast footsteps and rustles of grass startled the group. It is an ambush! The quick rustling noises were revealed as attack dogs speeding towards the group. One jumped on Soap, instead of the crew mate in front of him. The former fell on the grass and mud, brawling the dog in a fierce struggle to stop the predator's fangs from piercing his heart and tearing it out. Reaching for the dog's mouth, Soap took a risk and grabbed his head and mouth, shutting the latter and got the upper hand. Soap, instinctively, twisted the beast's head clockwise into an absurd angle, snapping the dog's next in half, killing it.

Pushing the now dead corpse aside, Soap got up, only to receive a shot on his shoulder from the mercenaries on the other side of the field. Slipping into cover, Soap yelled, "And I expected you brave soldiers to fight mano-a-mano! Here, since you cheated!" Pulling the pin on his scavenged grenade, he snapped out the grenade and tossed it across the battlefield. Seconds later, gunfire transformed into a barrage of screams and yells that melodied the ground. "Cheap win, Soap," Gaz commented, "but does sweet justice."

Grappling over the cover, Soap is once again face-to-face with another mongrel, this time fiercer and angrier; Soap could have sworn he saw the red blood in the dog's eyes. "Not this time, you mutt." Two fast but careless rounds later, the same dog lay on the ground, now its eyes pale and white, blood soaking the ground. "Aim down your sights! You are using a bloody rifle, Soap!" Yet again, Gaz's boastful and commandeering voice shot across the field.

"Eyes front." Two more mercenaries popped out of the bushes, running forward with their guns blazing, approaching Soap. He took out his pistol, and in desperate command of his skill, dropped both of them with three rounds each, one barely making its mark on the body. "They were just getting noisy." After the harrowing encounter, the field, again, is dead silent. Price took off ahead, scouting for any targets to taste his barrel. None, with a hint of disappointment. "Go time."

Following Price, Soap and Gaz, with their fellow members trailing behind them, approached a brand new scene, a scrapyard-esque barn that sits a couple more targets to choose. They were busy sipping coffee, smoking cigars and poking fun at each other. "Hah, have those intruders stopped firing? They must be dead." Nikolai translated the words those two spoke.

"What if they are British? Let's go and look."

"One more minute. Let me finish my coffee." At this point of time, Soap trained his rifle on their head. Pulled the trigger. A shot pierced the air. The coffee-drinking Ultranationalist fell on the floor, bullet in his jaw. The other was bewildered, dropping his cigar onto his foot. This prompted a comical scene where he made a grab for his leg, jumping into the air, screaming a lot of colourful yet untranslatable language, stopped short thanks to Nikolai's attempt to censor the words. "Woops!" Gaz pulled his trigger, killing the jumping enemy in style.

"Cut it all. Don't want us to be swarmed." Price then headed for another grated door sitting at the edge of the area. A fence to stop anyone from coming in, it seems. Knocking down the lock, Price stumbled through the fence, and almost instantly, as if the same dreaded copter spawned itself in the air, it entered the scene, possibly catching the scent of the team's stench for curiosity. The dreaded hum of the engines crowded the field with its menace, forcing all of the team to fall to the ground, prone, guns front. Soap, however, went to prone in the middle of an empty patch of a field, making him the odd one out. Still, it never crossed Soap's mind if he had been spotted - the helicopter took a look around, turned about and left. "Weird as it sounds, but they left." Returning to their stances and looking at each other in disbelief, they continued their arduous journey.

Pressing on, passing under a bridge, a few jeeps rumbling above. "Let's move, but stay low." They moved on, following a shallow riverbed just beginning to soak their feet. And there, they realized, was a small stronghold of the most daring, dangerous, defiant of the entire Ultranationalist bunch they had expected yet, and with that sobering thought, Price encroached the site where they were all standing. If the team started firing immediately right on the stronghold, it would be treacherous close ranged combat, which happened to be the team's best and worst forte - Soap would not be able to shoot point blank right on a target with the bulky, angry and metallic rifle on his hands. Their pistols are too weak and too small a capacity to handle that many targets, unless every shot is assumed to kill, always found its mark and always a headshot. There, the team decided a role switch.

As the team pondered their next move squatting in the freezing cold waters of the riverbed, they saw that black beast assuming control over the sky, searching, preying, intimidating the group out of their wits. The helicopter had an iron grip on the security of the location, and again, rifles would not be able to take it down. And like the bright light of the helicopter's searchlights, the answer illuminated, the answer that lay right under their noses other than their knees half-filled with mud, leaves and odour, the answer that would keep the entire team alive and out of the pool of freezing water just about to give Soap frostbite. "Follow me. Stay low." It was always stealth that saved them. With movement that sounded as if a cat was moving quickly, the team moved right up to the site, still maintaining silence. And as Soap was beginning to move out of frostbite, Price commanded, "Hold up."

"Goodness, how long must I stay in this icy water? Wished Nick was here," a fellow crewman complained, countered by Gaz with, "and earlier on you hated him." Price beckoned the group to look up, with the helicopter, "Snipers on the copter. Sentries on the bridge up ahead, too. You may want another weapon." Soap looked on his rifle, the barrel now cold, the butt of the rifle frozen. "Maybe it's time I took a different gun." He decided to backtrack all the way to the barn, with the two dead Ultranationalists. A quick search and he replaced his huge rifle with a more compact, more easy-to-use Heckler and Koch MP5K, bundled together with a small reflex sight. One or two magazines later, Soap was ready to go. While on the way back to the team, Soap spotted, one final time, one more helicopter, buzzing above him, wrecking his ears of silence. This time, it was a Hind. He flipped his front onto the ground, and once again, Soap tasted the road, with its disgusting odour and texture and all. "Stupid helicopter." This time, the pest of a helicopter decided to linger around, scanning the ground. Right there and then, the helicopter pointed its searchlight on Soap. "Don't spot me," he begged, "don't spot me."

Just like his prayers were answered, the helicopter switched its searchlight's position and flew off.

Right after that, Soap re-joined the team. "Goodness, and I thought I was dead meat."

"You are dead meat if you aren't careful enough. Let's go." Price then jumped up and blazed his gun. Everyone followed suit, ruining the entire party. "The firestorm has officially started - here comes our guests - the blokes!"

Taken by utter surprise, the entire group of barbaric Ultranationalists then retreated into the darkness, into the lush green of the greenhouses. "We expect a nice party, and you're ruining it! How are rowdy enemies so intimidated by a few people and long barrels of smoke and bullets?" Unhappy with the party crash, the entire team left the riverbed and charged forward. "About time, Price. My feet were getting numb." Gaz complained.

Moving into the field, past the grass and into the greenhouse, the area was still quiet. "Sharp brains for a barbaric group of fighters." Gaz decided to hide behind a line of potted plants. As luck would have it, a sudden jolt of explosion jumped on the entire team. What the helicopter did, smart as to being inept, was to hide right out of sight, pretending not to see Soap, with engines purring instead of roaring, and right after their grand entry was to sneak up to the greenhouse and tear it down, bringing everyone along. Soap burst into a half-rage, half-berserk status, his eyes seeing red at the helicopter not only deciding to cheat him, it had planned to bury him under a bed of wilted carnations, dead fern and thirsty plants that have long names to boot, with a small surplus of steel and plastic.

Seething, unable to control himself, he burst out of the greenhouse, spraying wild fire at the helicopter, his flame fuelled by the endless attacks bearing down on the greenhouse. The others followed him out, adding their fire onto the helicopter, before the entire greenhouse crumbled in a cloud of dust behind them. As the copter pointed at Gaz, readying another one of its dastardly menacing rockets, meaning to drop him and make him another unsung hero of the war, Soap let his gun go at the front of the heli, bullets pinging, with one hitting, by chance, the head of the technician. Suffering half the control of the plane, the pilot turned the helicopter around and accelerated out of view, into the heavy puffs of darkness. "And stay out of our turf!" Soap retorted, throwing an empty shell at the tail of the cowardly and tamed beast. Soap was very sure he saw the pilot's face well, and had the chance, he would have painted his delirious face on toilet paper and throw it in the bin, before topping it all off by incinerating the entire bin.

"Stop digging holes for yourself, Soap. Here they come." Once again, the barbaric group had come out of their hiding spot, which was the barn, and began their trigger mortis, itching their fingers on their licenses to kill. "Finally, they got the show started good and proper!" Taking cover, reloading their magazines, bracing themselves, the team returned fire at the Ultranationalists. Bullets were exchanged, grenades tossed. Once or twice, Soap raised his head fast, ran one or two bursts of about three shots on one enemy, usually the approaching ones, and dropped back into cover, blowing at his hands to stop his shivering. He had a chance, more or less, to get another outburst, which would, indubitably, risk himself and his entire team. The barbarians would easily take pot shots right at him and there he goes, flying in the sky. About two magazines, a fresh and tossed grenade and tons of colourful words later, sounds started to die down, but still the party kept going. "Soap, get over to the other side and flank them! They'll have a hard time killing both teams! Gaz, follow him!"

Soap watched the firestorm closely. If he timed his movement wrong, he would end up right in the middle of the field, where he would be killed in a flash of a bullet round. Change position too late and he would be skewered by bullets from his team, or be a stumbling block for his team. Too early would end up in him being a sitting duck, and again, the Ultranationalists would take pot shots at him. He knew at one point of time, the eruption of gunfire would stop and both sides would reload. That was his window, a tiny one; he would have to squeeze through. He guessed that the window would slip away in less than three seconds - a minute amount of time - and he had only one chance. He shouted to Gaz, "Hey! On my mark, we rush to that pile of hay!" He returned the thumbs up signal; a welcome sight for the huffed man.

Right as the bullets stopped whizzing around, Soap jumped up and ran. And in that span of time, he was shot in the arm. Gaz restrained himself from movement, and watched in relieving dismay at the sight of a black ghost right behind the perpetrator. "Here!" A grip, a twist, a knife in the body. The enemy, in less than a second, dropped to the floor, allowing Soap to pass quickly before the gunfire erupted again. "Who's that?" Gaz shouted across to Soap. And in a flash, an explosion shook the ground. "Nick's the name, and you are dead." From then on, the Ultranationalists were cheap shots, trapped in three ways and wrecked completely.

A buzz of another helicopter drowned gunfire, again. "What, a Hind? Soap, get in the barn and take cover! Everyone else, follow him! I'll see to Nick if he is alright." Barnstorming the barn, Soap saw a Stinger on a stack of boxes. "Well, what do we have here?" Gaz bumped straight into him. "Watch that! It's explosive."

And as they were hiding in the barn, the helicopter came around and decided to bring down the house. Its Yak-B Gatling and GSh-30K autocannons rained on the barn like thunder and rain spasms, and the barn was half destroyed, exposing some of the beast's airframe. Snatching a Stinger, Soap pointed it at the flying mammoth, its guns spooling up again. A beep, a trigger pull. Soap felt the instantaneous recoil of the rocket escaping the barrel of the anti-air devastating weapon, what the pilots would comment it as a 'most cruel weapon'. The armed rocket guided its way forward to the helicopter's engines, to which, in Soap's disgust, the helicopter popped flares. Price barged in, pulling Nick in, only to face what could be described as a pun and danger.

Turning around, Soap spotted another Stinger, its sights still intact. Dropping his used rocket, he grabbed the still-intact rocket, lying near a chair with ropes loose in it. It must be Nick's chair. Pointing the rocket at the helicopter again, he waited for the familiar "beep" sound from the sights. It turned out to be broken; Soap replaced the rocket quickly. "It's used already!" Nick chuckled, before hiding with great effort after a bunch of rounds nearly riddled his poor body. Picking up one last rocket from behind a stack of hay, Soap aimed the barrel once more. "Bullets!"

Beep! Yes, that long-awaited beep occurred. Soap released the round. The helicopter then decided to retreat instead of firing, only to get its tail burnt up by the missile shot, and started veering right, tail burning. The pilot jammed his rudder controls hard, pushing the pedals to the floor, with little success, as the aircraft banked hard right. It crash landed on the destroyed greenhouse, before exploding into a ball of flames, removing species of plants from the rubble.

"There's your greenhouse, complete with the steel and plastic." Soap slapped a laughing Gaz on the shoulder. Price commanded, "Everyone on me. Let's move out." The team then exited the barn through the back, and realised they had found a new convoy of troops and trucks. It was a new challenge to the group, with a T-72 standing by, until Price's radio rang. "Bravo Six, be advised, that AC-130 is entering your airspace at this time. Out." This was quickly followed by a new transmission from the AC-130.

"Bravo Six, this is Warhammer standing by. Heard you could use some help down there. Call the shot."

Price heaved a sigh of relief. "Warhammer - Fire mission - danger close. Enemy armour and infantry, 100 meters to the southwest of our location, over." The message sent, the AC-130 rocketed the entire field of convoys, cannoned their souls chock full of gunpowder. "That's outrageous mate!"

"Bravo Six, we'll cover you all the way to the way to the extraction zone. You'd better get movin'."

"It's about time, Warhammer. Team, let's go." Price sped his pace towards a bridge at the far end of his vision.

"Nick, where'd you run off to?" Soap asked Nick, whom replied, "Nowhere, friend."


	7. (4:MW) B: The Coup

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic  
MODERN WARFARE ARC  
The Small Bonus to all who deserved it.**

**Bonus Chapter I - The Coup**

* * *

TRANSMISSION  
"Track."  
_Marine: Car is inbound._  
Com magnified on the car.  
_Command: Continue tracking._

* * *

(A.N. This chapter is written on Al-Fulani's point of view. Of course, I don't know much of what he is thinking, but I will try making it in accordance to CoD.)

What is this? Hands? Strong grips. Soldiers, I'm guessing. Armed soldiers. Room is so stuffy. _Can't breathe_..._ Just awake for a moment..._

"Al-Fulani. You, mangy dog. Wake up." The grip of the soldiers' hands loosened, before sending a powerful kick on my thigh. I'm kneeling, like a servant ready to obey every order. My hands are bound, my mouth gagged. If this lasted any more, I may faint...

"Yes. Unit Two report. Convoy is here? Good." The vice grip returned. The trained hands that went through dust and dirt, only to pull me to my death. My eyes close up, unable to breathe through my nose. Cold stuck my nose, so I am unable to breathe. You there! Please, the one in front of the screen, help!

No one is going to hear. Is it?

Doors unlocked. A flash of light pierced my eyes, blurring vision momentarily. As I came to my senses, I saw...

"Today, we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption!"

More soldiers with weapons. They are holding killing machines that can destroy people's lives. I hear... a helicopter, a Hind, buzzing through the sky, powerful engines roaring like lions ready to strike its prey. My knees scraped the ground, and I felt blood leaking. The two hands that gripped me hard pulled me harder across the burning tiles of stone. The ground is hot! Already it is hard to move by the legs, and you forcefully drag them? Wait until I get my hands on you. A dog started to bark at me, until its owner decided to pull it back.

A car, a tan one, full of dust mostly by sand. Is that the convoy? The plane is right above it, its weapons scary. Already, the dreaded view of the sun is setting, the bleak landscape doing nothing to stop it. Knees mostly swollen, I passed by the entrance of the building, near the car. "Dog. Get in there." They did not usher me in. They shoved me in, my head bumping the other end of the car, straight onto the handle of the car door. Looking back to see which faces, I only saw faces hidden behind masks, before one smashed me with a gun-splitting rifle-butt attack that dropped me onto the seat, before slamming the door shut and banging it twice, before the car revved up and drove into the streets.

**"The Coup"  
Evening - 25th July 2011  
Al Qunfudhah, Saudi Arabia  
Yasir Al-Fulani  
[Vision]**

I looked up, to find a man in a blue and white striped jumpsuit, in his coarse hand holding a Mini-Uzi. The intriguing thing, however, was the fact he had attached a tube right around his barrel, a suppressor. My mouth gagged, I had nothing to say. Pointing the gun at me, he pretended to shoot that machine right at me. Outrageous! I shook my head in disgust, head still spinning, trying to orientate myself. The driver drove the car on, like cheetahs in the wind, past many people.

I dared not look out, facing the carpet of the car, for fear I get shot, or get spat upon, or maybe even see my people suffer. Or I should say 'someone else's people'. "We all trusted this man to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity!" The loudspeakers screamed at me, determined to knock me back into unsound sense.

Through the front window I could see many things I dared not see. Pavements once brimming with people are now deserted and an occasional squadron whizzes past. An oil truck misses us by a small distance. We entered a small maze of wrecked cars, destroyed vehicles, and still intact armoured vehicles; garbage all over the floor, with the occasional piece of paper flying across. Another squadron shot past us, guns primed, and another stationary squadron, brainwashed, guns in the air and firing. Of course, they are exclaiming freedom, but none the wiser they are boxing themselves into doom. My nose cleared as the driver was instructed by the jumpsuit man to turn left.

We slowed down as we turned, realizing a tank is running in front of us, a loud, rumbling sound piercing through our vehicle into my ears; I tried ignoring it as my hands bound to my back, but of course it had made me a little insane. Exiting the trench hand made by soldiers of this country, we rose, and reached a main road, most probably going to the highway, the tank running at the front. The car was bumping around like a jack-in-a-box failing to pop out - so much the jumpsuit man dropped his phone. I wasn't in the mood to chuckle. After all, who hoots and tweets happily if they were about to be humiliated in the public? The jumpsuit man picked up his phone, promptly receiving a buzz from the confounded machine. A button pressed and he started to talk.

What the phone said wasn't pleasant. He passed the still open phone to the driver. He heard, he drove. The jumpsuit man looked at me.

Of course, my first thought was -

A jump of the car, as the tire collided with a rock. That shocked me. What was I thinking? The car rumbled on, dawning on me to look around lest I become fraught with worry. "But like our monarchy before the Revolution, he has colluding with the West with only self-interest at heart!" Senseless. Making a war isn't going to be easy as that man spoke like he is all-rightful. That's why I needed to cooperate with the West so as to save ourselves from war.

The tank rumbled on, disappearing into the dust. Losing my interest in that contraption, I turned to the left, rewarded only with a horror plastered on my face as two armed men tried to bash down a door, weapons in hand ready to murder civilians in the rows of houses - I used to call them "modern villages" - as some people tried to lock and push the door from the other side, an inference I made with wild guesses. We drove away, without any remorse, much to my reluctance.

More people running for their lives, some chasing the back of our car. I can positively describe that one - brown coloured collared button-on shirt, short sleeves, creased so short I could see his muscles. Sporting a leather belt on his equally coloured jeans, and his feet wrapped a nice, leather felt, brown coloured shoe. His hands, back and forth, running from the battleground. I could see the sweat, feel the sweat.

We took a left, the right barricaded by the butt of the earlier tank, pointing the gun right onto a two-storey building. More people, especially non-fighters, women wearing hijabs, scrambling, running for their lives. We sped down the road, meeting an innocent man almost shot by a rebel, before getting up and running into shelter before we bulldozed him into the floor. Cutting our road ahead was a troop truck, soldiers on the back. Not wishing to look at it, I retreated to looking at the carpet. I didn't know how long had passed since I've been captured in my home.

The truck took a left while we turned to take a right. Looking up, air-conditioning blasting to my face, I met gazes with bystanders beaten up by soldiers with rifle butts, passers-by facing a garage door, hands behind their backs over their heads, guns trained on them. They are a horrifying sight. A helicopter hovered in the distance, soldiers rappelling down to the ground, ready to train guns on innocents. One more near the garage door was manhandled poorly, slammed to the floor and roughly pancaked. "Collusion breeds slavery! And we shall not be enslaved!"

Again, as we passed by, more people, some as corpses, some still badly held, and in the distance a mosque. The jumpsuit guy told the driver of something, pointing at the top of the mosque. Riding through a narrow alley I glimpsed at things I beared not to see, but I saw anyway, of some civilians whom wanted their lives to be free by retaliating shot by the soldiers. Bravery. Again, another squadron. Whoa! A tank, another squadron. Is this city under a lockdown? Swerving left without difficulty, I fixed my gaze on the barrel of the tank, wishing it wouldn't shoot me. After the turn, fire met my eyes. This country is unstable, and they think they are right?

Past a dumpster, a person inside the road we are on was busy spray painting graffiti, and I saw a bearded man's face. He saw our car and sprinted out of sight, taking a left into an alley. "The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve. Let us show that we do not fear them." Past the houses the truth dawned on me that I had caused all this chaos, all the suffering of the people, and the person scaling a fence to run from a mutt. I have remorse, I wished I stayed with my country. Sure, I did collude with the West, but that was just to save myself and ourselves. What from, I ask myself.

Yet another helicopter. My face started to freeze with what I thought as frostbite. I bit my lip; my nose felt numb, my hands were cold. My whole body shivered, not only from the cold, but from the fright I am about to receive. The PA system rang again, "As one people, we shall free our brethren from the yoke of foreign oppression!" A guy poked his head out of a dumpster, before shutting himself up. Reaching the end of the road, the waves crashing on the bank, we took left. I mesmerized the waves of the sea, only ruined by the helicopters rushing overhead. In a whiz of the car, I could see images rushing by. A firing squad, a tank in training, but I lost concentration. Not making any more sense of the front, nonetheless, I still heard the sound of the PA. "Our armies are strong, and our cause is just."

"As I speak, our armies are nearing their objectives, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation." We finally stopped, a soldier pulling the door open. Another dragged me out and flopped me on the floor. He looked at me menacingly, and right after I tried to wake, he booted my face.

"Our noble crusade has begun."

* * *

My eyes were blurred, the colour drained. It was shadowy looking. Am I in the afterlife? No, I'm still thinking.

I visualize... a cross? Hands gripped me tightly, leading me to somewhere I don't know. What I could only make out of next is the floor, the tiles. We walked through an arched walkway. Then, a building looming. Then, an exit to a courtyard? A man stood there, his face unrecognizable. Blacked out.

I now regain my senses, looking down on the floor, hands and knees tied to something behind me. It could only be wood, and I struggle to break free, but I found out I was held by a soldier, his coarse hands locking my arms in place. Looking up, I meet face-to-face with an unfamiliar man, yet he looks familiar. A bearded face, dimples flooding his facial appearance, eyes curled to a frown with no hair on top of his shiny head. He could only be -

Who? He grimaced at me, before giving a signal. Once more I was pushed right forward, onto a wooden pole. Of course, I would be held against a wooden pole. What next? Nothing too bad, I guess? The soldier flipped me around to face the entrance I entered from without me knowing. He tied me securely to the wooden pole, rendering me immobile. His grip is tight, really tight. I think my hands are going numb. The wood's nails scratch my back, the nails poking right on my back. I realised I have been tied up to a pole, a long wooden pole. But what would be next? "Just as they lay waste to our country, we shall lay waste to theirs." I peered right, looking directly to a camera held onto a tripod stand. I could guess that the soldiers would spit on me, then leave me alone, or kick me hard, or maybe something else. That was right until the bearded man's hand held a gun, its shiny, silvery metallic feel and appearance struck light rays onto my heart.

So that was the phone call all about.

The gun is the answer.

But what is he doing? As a man, in a uniform and a tactical vest like no other, most probably like a commander, approached him, the bearded man held up his gun. By observing the barrel, the gun is of high caliber. My fear intensifies. I prayed, and hoped that was meant to happen. The commander froze in position.

The bearded man flipped the gun, handle facing the commander. The latter took it.

Looking right to the camera, he says, "This is how it begins."

Bump. A jolt in my heart.

He took a step. Bump.

Approaching me. Bump.

Gun ready. Ba-dump.

In a sparse amount of time, my life flashes across like the wind, blowing past, it was quick and it disappeared in a flash. Bump.

He lifted the gun, barrel right on my face. I could see the bullet. I swallowed, the Adam's apple in my throat jumping up, then down.

He cocks the barrel. He pulls the trigger.

Bang.


	8. (4:MW) USMC: War Pig (UC)

**CoD storyline: The Fanfic  
MODERN WARFARE ARC  
Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare**

* * *

TRANSMISSION  


The satellite uploads a video feed of North Riyadh, Saudi Arabia as the war continues._  
__News Caster: ...heavy fighting continued throughout the night as U.S. Marines continued to push towards the capital city in pursuit of Khaled Al-Asad. Sporadic fighting can be heard as the bulk of Al-Asad's forces fall back towards the Presidential Palace.  
Command: Vasquez, what's your status?  
Lt. Vasquez: Command, this is Lt. Vasquez. We're not missing this party.  
Command: And what firepower do you have?  
Lt. Vasquez: We got War Pig en route. Its systems are on and ready.  
Command: An M1?  
Lt. Vasquez: Yes, an M1. Vasquez out.  
Command: You have a hell of a load of firepower there..._

**War Pig  
Unit Cost: USD$4.5m-6m  
Made in Lima - Ohio  
Crew: 4  
Structure: Steel-encased depleted uranium armour - 1500HP gas turbine engine  
Armament: 2 x 7.62 M240 Machine Guns - 1 x .50cal M2 Machine Gun - 120mm Smoothbore Cannon**

* * *

The late afternoon sunshine, the birds chirping and flying frantically around, away from the blood-ridden battleground, the silent wind. It seemed like any evening - minus the battleground - and everything was considered peaceful. Too peaceful, Jackson thought. "I'm guessing they're just waiting for us. Are they?" A Marine quipped, his M4 standing on the floor, supporting the Marine's right arm. Vasquez, on the other hand, was looking around with his binoculars, scouring every piece of land he could find, hoping an OpFor head would pop out. Just like a hunt, he presumed, but an ironical one.

"You got enough ammunition? Need to scavenge?" Jackson clipped another round into his third magazine, and finished filling that magazine. In total, he calculated, an ammunition pool of thirty times three. Jackson correctly deduced he had just enough for a few OpFor, since he was sitting on ninety total. "I suppose, if I got an average of three hits and I could hit at ninety percent accuracy..."

"Math ain't gonna save your ass. Get more magazines," A Marine interrupted. His dissent attracted a bit of attention from the others, and some rebuked harshly. "Math is gonna save your life! Without math, there would be no buildings, no guns, and..."

"...and no work done. Get your asses on the line now, hostiles are moving in from the north!" Vasquez signalled to all to get into attention. Jackson scrambled to holster his third magazine, and with others, raced towards cover, all while switching on his HUD.

"Bravo Six we're clear of the Bog, thanks for the assist. We'll hold down the left flank and provide supporting fire, out."

**"War Pig"  
27th July 2011  
06:31:04  
Sgt. Paul Jackson  
Al Qunfudhah, Makkah, Saudi Arabia**  
**[Objective: Escort War Pig to safety]**

A dust storm blew in the distance, silhouetting some of the OpFor approaching. That did not deter Jackson from picking some OpFor and becoming a stumbling block, preventing them from pushing forward. Others followed suit, pointing their barrels at targets and dropping them. Although the splatter of blood was not present and the gore removed thanks to the dust storm, the team still felt that nondescript, cavalier rush of excitement and fear, mixed with a little anger and fury. The fear that was added was soon exacerbated when an OpFor helicopter loomed overhead - surely they would return fire.

True enough, they did. Jackson experienced a slight pain in his right shoulder and it dawned on him the Marines present were outnumbered. A second later, a burst of AN-94 gunfire ruptured from the dust cloud, lodging rounds into Jackson's friend's head. A double tap. And he drops, blood gushing out the wound real quick. And as much blood jumps out of the wound there came just as much OpFor - too many indeed. Jackson rushed towards the nearest cover - and with a mounted M249 - he could find. Luckily, it was right in front of him.

"Right flank! They are moving in on the right flank!" This frantic scream compelled Jackson to grip the handle of the M249 with bipod mounted on the cover - which he did - and pull the trigger - which he did again. He held it there, and out of the barrel spat a stream of bullets. Gunfire bursted at an immense and uniform speed, and rounds returned from the other side of the field just as quickly. The opponent had jumped on the bandwagon, it seemed to Jackson. Shifting his fire from the helicopters, he aimed for the ground infantry - in which they had been reduced to a bag of bones and flesh, clad in armour, blood everywhere. Jackson swore he saw a bone poke out of an OpFor.

"Jackson! Focus on the damn helicopters! We'll push back the infantry," Jackson's radio rang, impetuous and angry. Surely his help had fallen to void?! He returned, "Bullets like these aren't gonna penetrate the armour of a helicopter!" He expected to get a reply stating they would get on the helicopters. The tank had an impressive loadout - with a powerful frontal cannon. They have more than enough firepower to blow out one helicopter, even another!

"That's why you need to find a rocket launcher, jackass! Get on it!" The radio shut off. An irritated Jackson got up and surveyed the site of battle. To the right he found an RPG-7D.


End file.
